When You Fall, You Fly
by razztaztic
Summary: Summer 2013 Fic: Retelling of "Critic in the Cabernet" answering the prompt "What if Booth had no tumor and Brennan had the in vitro fertilization?" Rated T for language.
1. Whoa, horse

**AN: Excellent Driver should change her username to "Excellent Prompter." Not kidding. She's the genius behind the prompt that became_ The Heart Won't Lie_ and I used another of her ideas from the 2013 Secret Santa Fic Exchange for the _Bits & Pieces_ one-shot _Double Trouble_. _  
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**This new story is also in response to one of her suggestions: "After _Critic in the Cabernet, _Booth has no tumor and Brennan does the in vitro fertilization." Now that sounds like a great summer multi-chap project!  
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**I don't read as much fanfic as I should (and I'm sorry for that, considering how many of you who leave reviews also write) but I don't have to have read them to know that there are probably _a lot_ of stories out there that start with the same premise. We're all fishing in the same pond and using the same bait so it's bound to happen. I intend no offense and mean no harm to any other author or story with the writing of this. Pinkie swear.  
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**I own nothing, blah blah blah. Actual dialogue from the episode courtesy of the fantastic writers in Season 4.**

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**_"Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly."  
_Neil Gaiman, _The Sandman_**

**.**

_._

_what time is r appt w/ sweets?_

_12:30 pm. _

_damn. had to skip bfast now im gonna miss lunch_

_Why did you skip breakfast? _

_running late for P's teacher conf this am. no time_

_You know, your cell phone can be used as a calendar management tool and an alarm clock._

_yea i think u mentioned that a few times. want me 2 pick u up?_

_Yes, thank you. I have some energy bars at my desk. Would you like me to bring one for you?_

_no thanks. dont think the last one digested yet_

_They're very nutritious._

_for sandpaper. lunch at sids after mtg w/ sweets?_

_Yes, thank you. _

_see you 12ish_

_I'll be waiting out front._

_. . . _

After one preemptive rap, and without waiting for a response from inside, Booth pushed open the door to Sweets office. "Let's get this over with," he ordered the young psychologist. He looked at his watch. "You've got 30 minutes."

Sweets was already rounding his desk. "Our sessions are typically one hour -"

"Well, today ya got thirty minutes."

Brennan smoothed her skirt over her knees as she sat down on the small settee. "I'm sure you can cover whatever useless topics you had planned for us within thirty minutes, if you use your time efficiently."

"My sessions don't include useless -" Sweets looked to Booth for support; when the agent only gave him a cheeky grin and settled casually on the arm of the sofa, he gave up. "What I have in mind for today," he said instead, "is a simple word association exercise."

Brennan raised her voice to be heard over Booth's loud, ill-tempered groan. "Word association exercise?" she repeated skeptically.

Sweets crossed to the window and opened the blinds leading into the outer room of his office suite. "It's quite simple," he explained as he moved to take his usual seat opposite the partners. "Whatever Agent Booth says, you respond with whatever word or phrase pops into your head, and vice versa."

"Well, that's ridiculous." As was her habit, Brennan instantly took exception to his idea. "I can't properly respond without careful thought."

Booth simply wanted to leave. "Can't we just make it a drinking game?" he joked.

Sweets intercepted the smile they exchanged. "No," he insisted. "This is a valuable, psychological tool, Agent Booth. When you respond viscerally we can get to the root of your emotional issues and figure out what binds you two together as partners."

Booth rolled his eyes and then threw out the first word that came to mind. "Donuts."

Confused, Sweets stared at him. "I beg your pardon?"

"Donuts," he said again. "Glazed donuts. I see them right there."

"Because you had no breakfast!" Brennan interpreted triumphantly. "You're hungry."

"I'm starving!" He slipped down from his perch on the arm of the sofa to the cushion beside her.

"Yes!" Brennan tapped his arm smartly.

Sweets picked up his notepad. "No," he said as he scribbled. "That's not the proper response."

One did not simply tell Temperance Brennan she was wrong. "Of course it is," she countered immediately. "I'm explaining why he said _donuts_."

"The point of the exercise is not to explain, but to respond, okay?" Sweets shook his head. "Children can do this."

"Because it's childish," she shot back.

As always happened, he fell back into pleading with the recalcitrant pair. "Can we just try it? Please?"

The growling in his stomach reminded Booth that he wanted to get out of there quickly. "All right." He slumped back against the sofa, resigned to playing the kid's game. "Okay, fine," he muttered. "Here we go. Are you ready?" He considered a moment. "Hunger."

The deep timbre of his voice drew a surprising response from Brennan. "Sex."

His eyes widened. "Whoa."

"Horse."

Okay. That word made sense. "Cowboy."

"Child."

He tried to keep up. "Baby."

"Booth."

He was confused again. "What, you think I'm a baby?"

"You're a father," she pointed out.

In a million years he would never understand how her mind worked. "Oh. Mother."

"Birth."

He grinned, sure now that he was following along. "Happy."

"Sperm." Her reply was instant.

Or maybe not. Booth looked at Sweets. "Sperm? Isn't this getting a little weird?"

The young man was watching closely as the words tumbled out between them. "No. Keep going."

"Okay." Booth cast an uncertain glance at Brennan from the corner of his eye. "Egg."

"I want a baby."

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_So? Whatcha think? :-)_


	2. Thinking It Over

_AN: The plan is to update this story once a week throughout the summer, on Friday or Saturday. And guess what? Today is Friday! And since I had yesterday off and the chapter is ready . . .  
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_Also, thanks very much for the reviews, alerts and favorites following the posting of the first chapter. You guys make this writing fanfic thing fun!_

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There was silence in the SUV for the first thirty minutes or so, as Booth concentrated on navigating the usual day-time crush of traffic out of DC into the Virginia countryside and Brennan took advantage of the quiet to check email on her Blackberry. Her shocking announcement in Sweets' office, however, was never far from his thoughts and as they left the Roosevelt Bridge behind he cast a quick glance in her direction. She was staring out the window, a faint smile curving her lips.

"So," he began, and then hesitated when her silver-blue eyes focused on him. "You were . . . you were kidding, right?" His gaze moved rapidly back and forth between the road in front of them and her. "Back there? In Sweets' office? You were just yanking his chain? Right?"

"About having a baby?" When he nodded, she shook her head. "No. I am very serious."

"No, Bones." He sighed and rubbed his jaw with the hand not holding the steering wheel. "You can't just -" A memory clicked into place. "Is this about the dog?" She looked at him with surprise. "I know you were . . . upset when he was put down but, you know, there are rules and . . . and we can get you another -"

"Ripley?" Brennan interrupted him. "No, of course not. Yes, it's true," she admitted grudgingly, "that I hadn't given serious thought to owning a dog before interacting with him but, no. My desire to have a child is not related to Ripley. A baby isn't a pet, Booth."

Her tone chastised him and he immediately took offense. "I know that!" he retorted sharply. "I have a kid, remember?" He rushed on without giving her a chance to respond. "But you don't just . . . decide . . . on a whim! . . . to have a baby. You just . . . you just don't . . ."

"You think I shouldn't have a child?" she asked pointedly. "Do you think I couldn't raise a child properly?"

"No -"

"Perhaps you think I wouldn't be a good mother," she accused him. "You have mentioned before that I should be more empathetic . . . do you believe I would have difficulty bonding with my child?"

"No, Bones -" This conversation was not going at all as he had planned.

"Because you're wrong," she insisted and to his horror, he saw her blink rapidly in an effort to hold back tears. "I would love my child, Booth. I would be a good mother."

It was the glimmer of hurt he saw that did it, pain that was obvious to him despite the effort she made to hide it by turning away. Jaw clenched, he took one quick glance in his rear view mirror and over his shoulder, and then slammed his foot on the accelerator and gunned his way across four lanes of traffic. He ignored the brakes screeching in his wake and the horns that blared out from the vehicles he cut off in his rush to reach the shoulder of the interstate. He threw the SUV into park before it had completely stopped moving and shifted in his seat to face her.

"Okay, I didn't say that," he corrected her firmly, his voice quiet, his eyes burning into hers. "And I definitely wasn't thinking it." It was still there, that hint of distress that he might question her ability to love, to be a mother, and it cut him to the quick. "I know you, Bones," he told her fiercely. "I've seen you with kids - with Parker, with his friends, with . . .with . . ." His brain worked frantically. "With the kids we've met - Shawn Cook!" He came up with the name triumphantly. "And . . . and Andy, you know, you were great with him! I have never . . . ever," he emphasized, holding her gaze, letting her see the truth that blazed from his, "doubted your ability to love. Anyone." Her eyes dropped then, briefly, before his next words, and the hand that squeezed her knee, drew them back. "You will be a great mom," he promised. "And any kid would be lucky to have you for a mother."

Outside the SUV, traffic continued to race by, unnoticed by either of them.

He waited for the tiny nod, for the moment when the faint shadow disappeared behind her belief in his words, before he continued.

Or, at least he tried to continue.

"It's just . . ." Booth sank back against the back of his seat. "A baby, Bones. You just don't decide to have a baby because of some . . . some game that Sweets -" He snorted loudly. "He probably made it up, you know, that stupid game. I mean, you know he thinks we're his personal guinea pigs, huh?" At that moment, he wanted to wrap his hands around the young psychologist's throat and strangle him. "Now there's someone who needs a pet," he scoffed.

"My desire to have a child isn't because of that silly exercise," Brennan argued. "It's a rational, well-considered decision -"

"In five minutes," Booth cut her off. "You made a rational decision about a life-changing event in five minutes?"

She shrugged. "My mind works quickly. I don't require as much time in order to reach a definitive conclusion as most people."

"When they stopped making your toothpaste," Booth reminded her archly, "it took you six months to decide what new brand to buy."

Her mouth opened, then closed. "That was different," she said finally. "I was doing research, there are important differences in the formulas and the percentage of -"

"Oh, right!" He laughed outright. "And I guess a baby is a lot less complicated than toothpaste!"

Her chin jutted forward stubbornly. Booth recognized the signs of a woman who had made up her mind and sighed loudly. He had his own obstinate streak.

"It's just . . . a baby, Bones. A baby." He shook his head, "You don't want to make a mistake, you can't just . . . decide . . . to have a baby without thinking about it! You have to plan for it, and . . . and . . ." He closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Think about it, you have to think about it first."

"Is that what you and Rebecca did?" It was her turn to look smug while he stared back, speechless.

"Okay, not the point!" He shot a disgruntled glare in her direction and then shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Alright, yea," he muttered, clearly unhappy with the turn the conversation had taken, "Rebecca and I, we . . . you know, we . . . we didn't plan on getting pregnant but that was different, okay?" He smoothed down his tie self-consciously. "We were together," he pointed out quickly, "and . . . and we were in love back then so . . . so, okay, yea, it was unexpected but we weren't alone so . . ."

"But you were away frequently," Brennan pointed out. "You've told me several times how often you had to leave Rebecca on her own and she seems to have managed just fine."

Booth sputtered wordlessly for a few seconds then, his jaw tight, a muscle ticking beneath one eye, pointed one long finger at her. "This habit you have of only remembering things that prove your point? It's really annoying."

Her eyes widened innocently. "I'm just saying -"

"You know, we're not talking about me." He changed tacks abruptly. "This isn't about me or Rebecca or Parker. It's about you and . . . and this crazy . . ."

"If you don't want to help me," she began.

"I didn't say that!" He growled audibly and slapped one hand on the steering wheel. "I didn't say that. I'm thinking about it, okay? I'm thinking about it." The glance he shot her was filled with frustration. "It's hard to think about anything else." When she opened her mouth to speak, he waved a hand to silence her. "And that's all I want you to do, Bones! Think about it, okay? Just think about it! That's all I'm asking. Twenty-four hours," he said desperately. "One day! Just . . . just give it one day before you make a final decision. One day!"

She considered him silently for several seconds and then, finally, nodded. "Fine. I will take your advice and give this decision twenty-four hours of careful thought."

His shoulders sank with relief. "That's all I'm asking, Bones. Just . . . just think about it. I just want you to think about it."

"Fine."

"And Parker is not a mistake, alright?" The words tumbled out suddenly, surprising both of them with their vehemence. "Maybe we didn't plan on . . . maybe getting pregnant was a surprise," he continued with determination, "but Parker is the best thing in my life."

"I know that," Brennan agreed quietly. She didn't look away from him. "He is a bright, intelligent, engaging little boy."

"Fine." He glanced at her uncertainly. "So . . . we're good now?" When she nodded, he finally noticed the busy highway again. "Fine," he said again. "Let's go pull Otis out of the wine barrel."

Brennan frowned and picked up her phone. "The victim has been identified?"

"No." An amused grin on his face, he looked at her again. "Otis? Andy Griffith? Never mind." He gave up and flicked on his turn signal. "Never mind."

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Four hours later, Brennan stood over a vat of gelatinous purple goo, working with the rest of The Jeffersonian team to fish out what was left of a formerly living human being.

"I've decided to have a baby."

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_Yes, I said Blackberry. Back in the day (2009) Blackberrys were the phone of choice for busy professionals. Look it up, yung'uns.  
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_Thanks for reading!_


	3. A Word of Advice

_I know I mentioned updating this fic on Friday or Saturday but, what can I say? I'm impatient. And excited to get on with this story! _

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"Brennan?"

"There's a fracture on the zygomatic, probably from a blow to the face." Brennan's tone was distracted as she studied the x-ray image on the computer in front of her.

Angela huffed in exasperation. Five minutes. It had taken five minutes to come out of her frozen "_Did I really just hear that?_" state, drop her sketchpad and race to Brennan's office and already the anthropologist was busy working.

Without warning, or asking permission, she reached out and snapped the laptop closed.

"Angela!"

She shrugged off the protest clearly audible in the surprised exclamation. "He's dead, sweetie." She dismissed the victim without a thought. "Pickled, actually. He can wait." She planted herself firmly down in a chair beside the sofa. "Did I really just hear you say you are going to have a baby - with Booth?"

Brennan frowned and reached for her computer again.

One perfectly arched eyebrow rose. "Don't even think about it."

With a frustrated sigh, Brennan sat back. "No." Her reluctance to participant in this conversation was palpable. "That is not what I said. I said that I am going to have a baby and Booth will merely be providing the sperm."

Angela closed her eyes and rubbed a small circle into her temple with her left index finger. "Yea, that's what I thought you said," she mumbled. Her back went rigid as she sat up abruptly. "Are you nuts?"

Brennan looked mildly insulted. "I am very sane. I've made a well-reasoned, rational -"

"If this is just an excuse to get naked with Booth," Angela interrupted, "then I'm all for it. Throw him down on the bed, rip his clothes off and . . . well, you can take it from there." Her grin turned suggestive. "But if you can't," she added with a leering twinkle, "call me. I'd be happy to come over and help."

"I don't think Booth would be interested in that." Brennan shook her head, amused.

Angela looked at her with pity. "Trust me, honey," she drawled. "They're all interested in that." She pushed the moment of levity aside. "I can't believe you're serious about this. You aren't . . . are you?"

"Yes, I am," Brennan stated firmly. "And I have to admit," she cast a reproach-filled glance at the other woman, "I'm somewhat disappointed that you aren't being more supportive."

"Hey, I'm supportive!" Angela immediately argued. "I support you! But that doesn't mean I'm going to be your personal Greek chorus and just follow you around, parroting everything you say!"

"That's not the purpose of a Greek chorus. Their function is to -"

"Brennan." Angela was having none of her friend's typical method of changing the subject to something more comfortable. "I support you 100%, okay? This is me, being supportive." She patted her own shoulders. "And me being supportive wants to know what the hell you're thinking! This is not the way to have a baby!"

"Actually, you're mistaken." Brennan's jaw firmed stubbornly. "I've done my research and artificial insemination is a very efficient method of placing the semen in close proximity to the entrance to the cervix, thereby increasing the likelihood of fertili -"

"Yea," Angela cut in. "You know what else is an efficient way of putting semen near the cervix?" She didn't wait for an answer. "A penis. And the one you want," she smiled smugly, "is attached to Booth."

"No." Brennan shook her head. "No, I can't have intercourse with Booth. It would . . . he would see that as creating an emotional bond between us."

Angela's mouth dropped open. "And a baby won't? You honestly believe that you can have a little Booth running around and that won't affect your relationship?" She leaned over and put a hand on Brennan's knee. "Honey, the man is into you - I can tell! Just give him a sign," she pleaded, "and I bet he'd give you as many babies as you wanted. You could . . ." She threw her hands in the air. "You could populate a new state! But this?" She could tell by Brennan's closed expression that she was getting nowhere but she wasn't ready to give up. "Brennan, this is not the way to have a baby with Booth."

"I have work to do." Brennan opened her laptop with determination.

"Sweetie -"

"And I believe you have a facial reconstruction to begin."

"Fine." Angela sighed and stood up. "But just so you know," she said before she left the room, "I'm not done."

When no response was forthcoming, she shook her head and left.

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Booth was on his way back to his office, fresh coffee in hand when the elevator doors pinged open. To his surprise, Cam walked out.

"Ah, just the man I wanted to see." She passed over a manila folder. "The victim is Spencer Holt, missing almost a year." She stuck her hands in her pockets and fell into step beside him. "He was a wine critic. Apparently he could destroy a vineyard with one review."

"Great." Disgruntled, Booth slapped the closed folder against his thigh. "Everyone loves a dead critic. My suspect list just tripled." Once inside his office he dropped the folder on his desk and, still standing, sipped carefully from his hot coffee while he reviewed the few pages it contained. "That's all you got?" He pierced her with a look. "Why didn't you just send an email?"

Cam looked over her shoulder at the busy rabbit warren of cubicles behind her before she leaned in closer. "You and Brennan," she spoke quietly, "you're going to have a baby?"

Dismay registered briefly on his face before he groaned and closed his eyes. "She told you?"

"She told everyone!" he was informed smartly. "It's probably on the news by now!"

The chair protested loudly as he sank down in it with a frustrated sigh. "She mentioned it this morning . . . she promised me she'd think about it for 24 hours."

"Well, her 24 hours ended at -" Cam looked at her watch theatrically. "4:30."

"Dammit." Booth dropped his head into his hands.

When he didn't speak for over a minute, Cam tapped a finger on the top of his skull. "Well?"

He looked up. "Well what?" he hedged.

"Are you?"

"I don't know." He shuffled papers and files from the top of his desk and avoided her eyes. "That's the purpose of the twenty-four hours, right? To think about it. So," he cleared his throat self-consciously, "I'm thinking about it."

"What's there to think about?" Cam demanded. "Just tell her no! Believe it or not," she crossed her arms over her chest and glared, "it is possible to say no to Temperance Brennan. I do it every day! You should try it sometime!" Her voice had grown loud enough to attract a few curious glances from the agents just outside his office.

Booth abruptly pushed back from his desk; his stride long and angry, he hurried across the room and closed the door. "She wants a baby," he ground out when he turned back to her. "What's the big deal? What's wrong with that?"

Cam felt like stomping her feet. She should have expected his immediate 'circle the wagons and protect Brennan' response. Frustrated at both of them, she lashed out. "_**A**_ baby or _**your **_baby?" A muscle worked in his jaw while his eyes burned into hers. "There are a dozen sperm banks and fertility clinics around here, did she suggest using one of those? Did she ask anyone else to be her donor? Fisher is apparently creating his own . . . mutant army," she grimaced. "She didn't seem all that interested in using his sperm!"

"Fisher?" Booth shook his head and stomped back to his desk, where he sat down only to immediately pop up and pace beside it. "No. No, Bones is not having Fisher's kid."

Her eyes widened as she stared at him. "Do you hear yourself?" A flicker of something in his expression caught her attention, a glimmer of truth that even he had yet to acknowledge.

"Look, I haven't decided." He backed off from the statement quickly. "I don't know, okay?" Then, just as fast, he headed in the other direction. "What if I do, huh? You know? So what?" He spread his hands and shrugged. "If she wants a baby . . . she might . . . you know, it might do her good to . . . "

"You're going to do it!" Cam was dumbstruck. "You are! Why on earth would you even consider . . ." The glimmer became a spotlight; shocked at what she'd discovered, she fell silent and looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time. "Oh my God," she breathed. "You're in love with her. You're in love with Brennan."

Booth flinched, the movement miniscule and under control in an instant but focused on him as she was, Cam noticed. Her fear for him grew.

Her hand rose to cover her mouth. "Seeley, no." She shook her head and swallowed past the knot that had formed in her throat. "You can't do this. This isn't the way." She reached out only to watch as he stepped back, away from her. His jaw was hard, his eyes hooded. "Don't you understand how destructive it would be?" she pleaded. "If you give her a child - like this - without being a part of it, without . . . without being a part of her . . ." Cam struggled to explain her disquiet. "You know how she is, you know how single-minded she can be. She will focus . . . wholly . . . on this child. There won't be room for you." She didn't give him a chance to escape her this time as she stepped forward and clutched at his forearm. "I have known you for almost twenty years, Seeley Booth," she reminded him, her voice low and intense as she begged him to hear her. "I know how you feel about taking advice but believe me," she implored. "Trust me. This is not the way to . . . to get what you really want. Don't do this. Please."

His breathing was fast and shallow as he stared back at her. The only sound in the room came from the muffled noise of the bullpen. Finally, his chin lifted and she knew he had shut her out.

"I have work to do," he rasped.

"Booth -"

"And if this is all you have," he jabbed one finger down on the file she'd brought, "then you have work to do, too." He pulled out his chair and sat down without looking up at her. "You know the way out."

Cam stood there for a few more minutes, waiting for his attention, waiting for him to recognize her again. When he continued to ignore her as if she'd already gone, she walked out silently, blinking away the film of moisture that suddenly clouded her vision.

When he was sure he was alone, Booth slumped low in his chair, dropped his head back and covered his eyes with one hand.

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_FYI, if you were wondering if the plan for this story was just going to be me cherry-picking my favorite parts of the episode and tweaking them to my satisfaction, you may rest easy. Starting next week, I'm going rogue and blowing shit up. _

_BOOM! baby._

_(When I said that last part out loud, it sounded really cool. Just so you know.)_


	4. Then and Now

Everybody wearing hard hats?

Safety goggles in place?

Got your steel-toed boots on?

Good.

"And now . . . let us step out into the night and pursue that flighty temptress, adventure." APWBD

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_Home__._

_Finally__._

_Another__ six __weeks __away__._

_Another __notch __on __his __gun__. _

_Another __face __he__'__d __spend __the __rest __of __his __life __trying __to __forget__._

_F__or __now__, though, __he __was __home__. _

_Air __conditioning __and __hot __showers__. __His __own __car__. __Pizza__. __Steak__. __Cold __beer__. _

_And __her__._

_Pretty __blue __eyes__. __Happy__, __dimpled __smile__. _

_Long __blonde __hair __tangled __between __them__. __Her __body __soft __and __warm__, __welcoming __him __back__._

_She __lay __against __his __shoulder__. __He __felt __the __light flutter __of __her __breathing __while __he __played __with __her __fingers __in __his__, __as __sweat __cooled __on __overheated __flesh __and __thundering __heartbeats __slowed __to __a __normal __rhythm__. _

"_Seeley__." __A __whisper__, __hesitant__. _

_He __kissed __the __top __of __her __head__. "__Mmmm__?_

_One __breath__. _

_Two__._

"_I__'__m __pregnant__."_

_A __moment __of __shock__. _

_He __shifted __slightly__, __the __better __to __see __her __face__. "__You__'__re__ . . . __How __long__? __When __did __you __find __out__?"_

_She __watched __him __carefully__. __Anxiously__. "__A __couple __of __weeks __ago__." _

_He __fell __back __to __the __pillow__. _

_He __stared __at __nothing__. __He __stared __at __everything__. __Head __spinning__, __one __thought __chasing __another __thought__._

_Pregnant__._

_A __baby__. _

_His __baby__._

_His__. __Baby__._

_He __smiled__._

_And __laughed__._

"_Okay__." __He __turned __a __happy __face __to __her__. "__Okay__. __Everything__'__s __gonna __be __fine. We __can __get __married__. __Not __just __because __of __the __baby__," __he __was __quick __to __add__, __just __in __case__. "__I __was __already __thinking __that__, __you __know__, __maybe __one __day__ . . . "_

_He __was __going __to __be __a __father__. _

_An __old __fear __rose __up __to __taunt __him__. __An __angry __man__, __a __fist __raised __high__. __He __pushed __the __memory __away__._

_He __was __going __to __be __a _good _father__._

_He __was__ -_

"_Married__?" __She __pulled __away __from __him__. "__I __don__'__t __know __if __I__ . . . __I__'__m __not __sure __I __want __to __get __married __right __now__. __Not __yet__. __I __haven__'__t __even __decided whether or not__ . . . __I __might __not__ -" _

_Confusion__._

"_Okay__." __It __wasn__'__t__. __He __didn__'__t __understand__. "__We__'__ve __got __time__, __we __don__'__t __have __to __make __up __our __minds __right __now__, __I __just__ -"_

_A __new __fear__._

"_You __aren__'__t __thinking about__ . . ." __The __words __wouldn__'__t __come __out__. __He __stared __at __her__, __unable __suddenly __to __breathe__. "__You__'__re__ . . . __you__'__re __going __to __have __the __baby__ . . . __right__?" _

_She __wouldn__'__t __meet __his __eyes__. "__I__ -"_

"_Rebecca__."_

_One __word__. __One __plea__._

_Tears __threatened __to __spill __over__. "__I __don__'__t __know__," __she admitted __finally__. __She __looked __at __him__, __asked __him __to __understand__. "__I __start __law __school __in __the __fall__, __Seeley__. __How __am __I __going __to __take __care __of __a __baby __and__ -"_

"_I__'__ll __help__! __I__'__m __here__!" __He __sat __up__, __reached __for __her __hands__. "__I__'__m __here__!"_

"_You__'__re __gone __all __the __time__," __she __reminded __him__, __and __let __the __tears __fall__. "__For __weeks__! __Months__, __sometimes__! __I __don__'__t __know __if __I __can__ -"_

_He __was __nearly __frantic__._

"_My __enlistment __is __up __next __summer__," __he __said __swiftly__. "__I __don__'__t __have __to __re__-__up __again__! __I __won__'__t __this __time__! __I__'__ll __get __out__, __I__'__ll__ . . . __I__'__ll__ . . ." __An __idea__. "__The __recruiter __from __the __FBI__, __remember__? __I __still __have __her __card__, s__he __said __they__'__re __always __looking __for __guys __like __me__, __with __military __background__, __a __college __degree__. __I__'__ll __call __her__!"_

"_Seeley__ . . ." __She __wouldn__'__t __look __at __him__._

_He __couldn__'__t __look __away __from __her__._

_Terror__. __Stronger __than __anything __he__'__d ever __felt __in __front __of __or __behind __the __barrel __of __a __gun__._

_Pregnant__._

_He __was __going __to __be __a __father__._

"_Rebecca__ . . . __please__." __Broken__, __barely __audible __words__. _

_He __begged__, __and __hated __himself __for __it__._

_Hated __her__, __too__, __because __she __couldn__'__t__ . . . __wouldn__'__t__ . . . __immediately __reassure __him __that __begging __was __unnecessary__._

_The __longest __minute __of __his __life __passed__._

_Finally__, __she __nodded__. "__I __won__'__t__ . . ." __Her __eyes __lifted __briefly __to __his__. "__I __won__'__t__ . . . __I __won__'__t __do __anything __unless __it__'__s __a__ . . . __a __mutual __decision__." _

_The __concession __was __given __reluctantly__._

_And __it __wasn__'__t __a __promise__. __He __knew that__._

_Still__ . . . __relief__, __swift __and __overpowering__, __washed __over __him__. _

_It __was __a __chance__._

_He __pulled __her __into __his __arms__. _

_She __didn__'__t __resist__, __but __she __didn__'__t __soften __into __him__, __either__._

_A __baby__._

_His __baby__._

_He __was __going __to __be __a __father__._

_Everything __changed __in __an __instant__._

_._

.

_._

Booth jerked awake, immediately moving from sleep to a state of heightened alert in the way he'd learned as a child and never quite unlearned. He relaxed back into bed with a sigh, lifting his arm and bending his elbow to lay his wrist over his forehead.

_God__, __I __haven__'__t __thought __about __that __in__ . . ._

His eyes popped open. His fingers dug furrows into his hair and tugged at the roots as he stared at the light fixture above his head.

He'd never forgiven her, not really. For that one moment when she had control over the fragile flicker of life they'd created . . . He had loved those tiny, unformed cells immediately. Fiercely.

And she hadn't.

He never forgot that one fraction of an instant, that one second when his baby had been . . . inconvenient.

She knew he hadn't.

She never mentioned it, though, and by the time they called it quits for the last time, that moment had been just another in the hundreds . . . thousands . . . of small bits of wrong that nicked at their feelings until the love simply bled out and disappeared.

But he had his son.

Acting on instinct, he swung his legs around and got out of bed. Overlooking years of habit, he forgot to take those first few steps carefully and then was forced to grip the wall to remain standing. He hissed curses and invectives, gritting his teeth against the shards of pain that lanced up from his damaged feet, and focused on breathing until the torment faded to a manageable level. Toes curled, he hobbled down the short hallway to Parker's room.

He stood in the open doorway as if he could see in the dark shadows of early morning the sprawled form of a little boy sleeping.

But the room was empty. Because it wasn't his turn, because it wasn't his night, because it wasn't his week. Because that's how fatherhood was doled out to him now, in drabs and dribbles of hours and minutes and plans that changed at a moment's notice. Or without any notice at all.

The comforter on the bed was crooked, he noted inconsequentially, before it consumed him, the desire . . . the need . . . to straighten it, to set the room to rights, to keep his hands busy, to be active, to do . . . something. Anything other than stand outside and stare into the silent room where his child spent so little time.

Then he was pulling it off, Parker's haphazard method of making his bed even more obvious when the crumpled, bunched up sheet beneath was revealed. He chuckled quietly and stripped it away, too. He found a lonely sock lost between the mattress and the foot-board, as well as an empty snack cake wrapper he didn't even want to know the age of. The last discovery sent him to the hall closet for clean sheets and then he was busy busy busy moving around the narrow twin bed, making angles of corners and stretching the thin material tight enough to bounce coins on.

The mindless task occupied his hands but not his head.

His thoughts were free to wander.

_I __want __a __baby__._

_You__'__re __in __love __with __her__!_

_Rebecca__ . . . __please__._

_A __baby __or __your __baby__?_

_He __had __a __son__. __So __small__. __Perfect__. _

"_I__'__m __sorry__ . . . __I __tried __to __get __here __in __time__. __Can __I __hold __him__?" _

_I __would __love __my __child__, __Booth__!_

_There __won__'__t __be __room __for __you__._

_Goddamn __asshole __Sherman__. "__Sorry__, __Booth__. __I __gotta __take __you __back__, __man__." _

_This __isn__'__t __the __way__._

_We __don__'__t __need __you__, __Seeley__!_

_There __won__'__t __be __room __for __you__._

A bright red and blue arm stuck out beneath the pillows he'd thrown to the floor. He tossed them back up on the bed, picked up the stuffed toy and sat down on the now perfectly made surface.

He traced the edge of Spiderman's mask with his thumb.

It reminded him of missed birthdays. Of weekends that passed by too quickly. Of holidays defined in strictly regimented hours and bookended by the blare of a car's horn.

_I __want __a __baby__._

_You__'__re __in __love __with __Brennan__._

He tossed the toy aside and collapsed against the pillows, one knee on the bed, one foot still on the floor as he stared up at the shadows that moved on the ceiling.

_You__'__re __in __love __with __Brennan__._

"No, I'm not." The words rang out loudly in the darkness. _Am __I__?_

"We're just partners." Was that an edge of desperation to his voice? "Friends. I care about her because we're friends and partners."

He tried again.

"We're just . . . partners." _Oh, God._

_I __want __a __baby__._

"What am I thinking? I can't do it."

_There __won__'__t __be __room __for __you__._

"I'm just gonna have to tell her no."

_I __want __a __baby__._

"Such an idiot. I can't do it. Tomorrow, I'll just . . . tell her."

_I __want __a __baby__._

_It __is __possible __to __say __no __to __Temperance __Brennan__!_

He snorted. "For you, maybe."

_I __want __a __baby__._

Her eyes had been so bright, her smile happy and alive and . . . She was so beautiful.

_I __want __a __baby__._

"No! I can't . . ."

_I __want __a __baby__._

_There __won__'__t __be __room __for __you__._

_Rebecca__ . . . __please__._

_There __won__'__t __be __room __for __you__._

_I __want __a __baby__._

_We __don__'__t __need __you__, __Seeley__!_

_I __want __a __baby__._

_There __won__'__t __be __room __for __you__._

_I __want __a __baby__._

"NO!" He stood up too fast and sat down immediately as pain shot through his feet again. Elbows on his knees, he rested his head in his hands and breathed deeply.

One.

Two.

Three.

"No." Once more, he fell back to the pillows. Once more, he stared up at the ceiling.

"No." He spoke to himself firmly. "No, I can't do it. Tomorrow . . . tomorrow, I'll tell her."

He repeated the words like a vow. "Tomorrow, I'll just . . . say no."

_I __want __a __baby__._

"I can't. I can't."

.

.

.

.

_just __called __holt__'__s __wife__, __gonna __talk __to __her __at__ 130. __wanna __go __w__/__me__?_

_Yes__, __thank __you __for __asking__. _

_shes __working __in __alexandria __so __not __so __far __this __time_

_Alright__. __What __time __should __I __be __ready__?_

_hungry__? __lunch __first__?_

_I__'__m __at __the __diner __right __now__, __actually__. __I __arrived __at __the __lab __before__ 6:00 __a__.__m__. __so __I __decided __to __eat __early__._

_ok __if __i __join __u__?_

_Of __course__. _

_leaving __now_

_Would __you __like __me __to __order __for __you__?_

_yea__, __thx_

_You__'__re __welcome__._

_._

_._

_._

_not __a __turky __burger_

_Fine__, __I__'__ll __change __the __order__. _

_But __you __eat __too __much __red __meat__._

_no __such __thing__. __see __u __in__ 10_

_._

_._

_._

Booth caught the eye of the waitress behind the counter as he entered the diner. She smiled and nodded and within minutes of his pulling out a chair across from Brennan, she was at his elbow, hot pot of coffee in one hand and a plate of food in the other.

"What's this?" He held up the top half of the bun on his sandwich and addressed Brennan.

She speared an olive from her salad. "Grilled chicken." When his eyes narrowed, she smirked. "It's not a turkey burger."

"Think you're pretty clever, don't you?" He shook his head and picked up the knife and began to smear mayonnaise on the underside of the bun. _Tell __her __now__._

"Yes, of course. Why?"

"Never mind." _Tell __her__._ "What's that?" he said instead, looking at the papers spread out beside her plate.

"I've been researching sperm banks and clinics in the area."

The bite he'd just taken turned to cement in his mouth.

He managed, somehow, to swallow it. "Oh." He made a production out of removing an extra slice of onion from his sandwich. "Did you change your mind about . . . you don't want me to . . ." _See__? __She __doesn__'__t __want __my __baby__. __Just __tell __her__._

"No," she shook her head quickly. "I'd still prefer -"

His eyes lifted, snagged hers. Seconds ticked away.

"But only if you agree." She turned her attention to her salad again. "I'm just being proactive, in the event you . . ." Her fork stabbed into a leaf of spinach. "I know people disapprove." Her voice was quiet. "Angela, for one, has been extremely vociferous in stating her objections."

Silence fell over the table.

Brennan lifted one stapled set of papers, grimaced and set it aside.

_I __can__'__t __do __it__. __I __can__'__t__. __Tell __her __now__._

"Something wrong with that one?" Stalling, he poured ketchup he didn't want on his plate, next to fries that were growing cold.

"The parameters used to categorize the donor base are," she paused and considered a moment, "superficial. For instance," she pulled them toward her again and flipped through four sheets. "Here, they ask the donor to judge his own physical appearance on a sliding scale of one to ten."

Talking. They were talking. Maybe if he just let the conversation flow normally, his refusal would be easier to get out.

"Well, what's wrong with that?" He bit down on a fry. "It's not like people don't know what they look like."

"Well, yes and no," she shrugged. "Studies have shown that most people find it difficult to be objective about their physical appearance."

"Oh, come on, it's not that hard." Booth picked up his coffee and grinned at her over the rim. "I mean, I know I'm a ten."

"A ten?" she repeated. Her eyes widened, slid away. She laid down the pages and picked up her fork without further comment.

"What, you don't think I'm a ten?" His cup clattered onto the saucer.

"Objectively speaking?"

"What?" He watched, bemused and more than a little insulted, while she studied him. Her gaze swept over his hair, his face, across the width of his shoulders and the strong muscles of his arms that filled out his coat.

"Well?" For God's sake, she'd seen him practically every day for almost five years, how long did it take to -

She shrugged. "Objectively speaking, an 8.75 to . . ." She pursed her lips and considered him for a few seconds longer. "9.3."

"An 8?! What the hell's wrong with me?" _See__? __She __thinks __I__'__m __a __gargoyle__. __Okay__, __now __I __can __tell __her __no__._

"Nothing's wrong with you," she reassured him. "But if we assume 10 means physical perfection, well," her fork waved in his general direction. "Your forehead is slightly overlarge, your eyes are set a bit too close together and," she scavenged in her salad, "you could be taller."

"I am tall!" He crossed his arms and glared across the table at her.

"Well, yes," she conceded. "But the ideal is between 6'2 and 6'4, which you are not." She sipped from a glass of water and catalogued his reaction. "It's not personal, Booth. Physical attractiveness is a very subjective topic, and as I said, superficial."

He was still smarting from hearing her rate him an 8. _8.75. __Tell __her __no__._ "So how would you rate yourself?" he asked caustically. "Objectively speaking," he added before she could.

Mouth closed around her fork, eyes roaming, head tilted slightly, she thought about his question for several minutes before she nodded. "In the same range," she told him. "I'm quite beautiful," she admitted modestly, "but based on objective standards, I do have flaws that would preclude a perfect score."

Booth laughed out loud and relaxed. If she thought she was an 8, too . . . "Bones," he leaned in toward her, his voice lowering naturally to a husky timbre that warmed the space between them. "You're a ten. Trust me."

She pinkened - at the compliment, at the tone of his voice, at the sincerity shining from his eyes. The rosy glow was faint but watching her as he was, he saw it, and was charmed.

_Stop __it__! __Stop __thinking __about __how __pretty __she __is! R__ight __now__! __Tell __her __no__!_

He sat back abruptly, clearing his throat. "Look, about what you asked me -"

At the same time Brennan picked up another brochure. "This company has a much more scientific approach." She spoke briskly. Quickly. "See, there are test scores and career descriptions. Oh!" One entry caught her attention. "Here's a law professor at Georgetown. He might be a good candidate -"

"I'll do it."

He heard the words come out of his mouth with as much shock as she did.

"You will?"

_Because __I__'__m __an __idiot__._

"Yea." He avoided her gaze and picked up the other half of his sandwich. "Sure." He shrugged and hoped he appeared loose and casual. "Why not, I mean . . . we're friends, right? Friends . . . help friends."

"I don't want you to feel pressured," Brennan assured him quickly. "You're under no obligation -"

"No, no." He dropped the uneaten portion of his lunch and smiled. At least, he hoped the grimace on his face looked like a smile. "No pressure, no obligation. I got it." He kept nodding, despite an attempt to stop. "I want to. " _God help me, I do. "_I do." _I really do._

"Thank you!" She reached for his hand and squeezed his fingers. "Thank you, Booth."

She was happy. It lit her eyes and brightened her smile and the vision of her tugged at his gut until, finally, it drew the same response from him. A genuine smile that wiped away - for the moment - the misgivings of the night before and the tart lecture his conscience had been giving him through lunch.

She was happy.

_I __want __a __baby__._

He made her happy.

That was all he wanted.

Wasn't it?

.

.

* * *

_AN: Last year at this time, I took a vacation and challenged myself to write something every day. It worked out pretty well and I got some cute things from it. Starting today I'm on vacation again and, well, I'm feeling kinda writey so I apologize now for the spam alerts that might fill up your inbox for the next 11 days. _

_Oh, and this? This was not a BOOM! This was more the hiss and sizzle of the flame running along the fuse.  
_

_Thanks for reading!_


	5. Girl Talk

Angela stood outside the door of Brennan's apartment, metaphorically girded her loins with a fortifying deep breath, and rapped a knuckle sharply against it. When it opened, she pasted on a bright smile and held up a bottle of wine.

It was still fairly early in the evening but Brennan, with her freshly scrubbed face and soft, comfortable clothes, was obviously not expecting company. Her expression remained closed and wary.

Smile dimming just a bit, Angela held up the bottle in her other hand.

A reluctant response tugged at the corners of Brennan's lips. "Are there strings attached to this offering?"

"Yes." Angela discarded immediately the brief thought she had of pretending ignorance and was rewarded for her honesty when, after considering her in silence for a moment longer, her friend silently stepped back and gestured her inside. Music played softly in the background while on the desk, a laptop sat open, bearing mute testimony to the evening's plans currently being interrupted.

Angela followed closely as Brennan crossed to the kitchen. "This is your own fault, you know," she informed the other woman. "If you hadn't run away from me all week, we could have talked at work."

"I did not run away from you." Brennan disagreed calmly while she retrieved the corkscrew from a drawer. "Booth and I have been busy with the case."

Angela knew her way around the cabinets and easily located two glasses while the wine was being uncorked. "I know running when I see it, sweetie." She watched as the deep crimson liquid was poured to a healthy level, then grabbed the open bottle and followed Brennan into the living room. "You were running."

Prepared for - and resigned to - a _tete__-__a__-__tete_, the two women took seats beside each other on the sofa. "Perhaps I have been avoiding you." Brennan sipped delicately before cupping the bowl of her glass in both hands. "If so, it's because I don't wish to further discuss my decision to have a child. You've made your objections clear. I've made my plans equally so."

"Alright." Angela sighed heavily and tucked one leg beneath the other as she faced her friend. "Alright, I accept that. I do. Just . . . help me understand, okay? Because I am your friend," she insisted, "and I do support you - and that remark still hurts, by the way," she added with a pointed lift of her eyebrows. "You can at least see what a shock it was, though, right? This baby thing? I mean, it came out of nowhere."

Brennan nodded somewhat grudgingly. "The initial idea was somewhat of a surprise, yes, even to me," she admitted, "but I've since given it great deal more thought and I realize that I have a lot to offer a child." She placed her glass on the table, folded her hands in her lap and sat up straight. "I'm young and healthy and barring unexpected illness or accident, I can expect to parent a child for several decades. I am financially secure," she pointed out. "I can afford to send my child to good schools and I can also expose him or her to culture, to science, to art and history and music. We could travel during school vacations and holiday breaks -"

"On digs?" Watching her earnest demeanor, Angela was reminded of the many times she'd seen Brennan testify at trial and hastily lifted her glass to hide her sudden urge to smile. "Because I can't remember the last time you did any traveling just for fun."

"Well, perhaps not on a dig until the child is older," Brennan demurred, "but we could go to Europe and Asia - you could go with us!" Her eyes lit with sudden excitement. "We could go to Paris! You could show us the city from an artist's perspective."

Angela had to look away again; the life Brennan was so happily planning was missing one very important person.

Brennan misinterpreted Angela's faint distress. "My reasons aren't just material in nature. I also believe that a child could add significantly to my life," she said quietly. "I . . . I would like to have a family. I wasn't aware of it before but . . . now I am and . . . I would like to have a family of my own."

"Oh, honey." In the golden light cast by the lamps in the room, with her make-up free face and dark hair falling freely to her shoulders, Brennan looked younger and more vulnerable than Angela could ever remember.

"Why are you so concerned?" Brennan's eyes searched Angela's. "Why is everyone so opposed? Are you worried I might not be able to care for a child?" She didn't give her friend a chance to answer. "I'm not broken, Angela." When the other woman immediately made noises to object, Brennan kept talking. "Emotions can be difficult for me, yes, and strong emotions can be especially so but I know what love is. I feel love." She smiled tentatively. "I love you - you're very dear to me. And I love Russ and . . ." There was a moment of hesitation before her shoulders lifted. "And I love my father, even after all that's happened between us. I will love my child," she vowed. "I know I can. I know I will."

"Sweetie," Angela set down her glass and grasped Brennan's hands in hers. "I know that. I never doubted it. It's just . . . why Booth?" she asked baldly. "Why does it have to be Booth?"

"I trust him."

The answer, coming so quickly, surprised Angela. "You trust him?" she repeated, frowning. "What do you -"

"I've thought this through very carefully." Obviously uncomfortable, Brennan pulled her hands free and reached for her wine. "Transactions such as these are designed to remain confidential but I can't rule out the possibility that an unknown donor might one day discover that he is the biological father of my child. Given my wealth and position, it is conceivable that an unscrupulous man could then try to gain a financial advantage from that knowledge. Booth would never do that."

"So," Angela's head began to spin as she tried to follow that logic. "You trust Booth to father your child but not . . . do anything about it?"

Brennan appeared puzzled by the question. "Booth is very trustworthy. Also," she rushed ahead of any follow-up questions, "I know Booth. I've seen his medical records, I know his family history. And, he has several excellent qualities that I hope would pass down to a progeny. He's kind and compassionate, especially to the weak and the vulnerable. He's strong, and not just physically," she added, "although he's certainly impressive in that regard as well. He shoulders the burdens of others without considering his own discomfort or unhappiness. And he's brave, sometimes at great personal risk. He's a good man," she concluded.

Angela listened to this earnest recitation of Booth's character with a smile that grew wider and wider. Her eyes misted over. "Honey, don't you see what's going on? You're in love with him."

"No." Brennan instinctively pulled back. "No, no, of course not, don't be ridiculous," she scoffed. "I'm simply stating facts. I've known him for several years, after all. Those are all traits that I've observed personally. I have very keen observation skills."

"Keen observation skills." It was a struggle not to laugh out right.

"Yes." Brennan looked very pleased with herself for having successfully argued her point.

"Right." Angela could do nothing but shake her head. "Okay, so since you've keenly observed that Booth is the perfect man," she said, tongue planted firmly in cheek. "Why not have some fun with him? Forget the test tube stuff. Just . . . get naked!"

Brennan refilled both glasses. "Booth only sees me as his partner."

"So much for keen observation," Angela laughed. "You are soooo wrong."

"No, I'm not." The blue eyes slid away self-consciously. "I . . . once suggested a change in our relationship, but he made it clear that he prefers to remain professional."

Angela's jaw dropped momentarily, before her face cleared. "That doesn't count," she dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. "That was years ago and besides, there's a statute of limitations on anything that happens under the influence of tequila. It's a rule."

"It is?" Brennan's face was skeptical.

"Okay, no," Angela admitted, "but it should be. Either way, your almost hook-up when you first met doesn't count."

"Oh." Brennan settled back on the sofa. "Well, regardless, I'm referring to an offer I made more recently."

Angela stared at Brennan without blinking for the space of a full minute, then she leaned forward very slowly and, very precisely, placed her wine glass on the table. "Excuse me?"

Brennan shifted uncomfortably beneath the intense gaze. "I suggested that we could provide certain . . . benefits for each other. He wasn't interested."

Another minute passed in stunned silence before Angela reached out and grabbed the wine bottle. "How much of this have we had?" She sat it back down with a clunk. "Not enough," she muttered, then she looked at Brennan again. "What? When did this happen? And why didn't you tell me immediately?"

"I don't remember the exact date but it was shortly after he and Dr. Saroyan ended their relationship." Brennan crossed her legs and draped her linked hands over her knees. "Booth made it very clear that he and I are colleagues and nothing more. I respect his position."

"Wait, wait." Eyes closed, Angela rubbed circles into her temples. "Wait. I just can't . . ." Her open palms hit her thighs with a loud slap. "What? You offered to have sex with Booth and he said no?"

"This is the reason I didn't tell you," Brennan pointed out. "I knew you would react this way."

"You offered to have sex - with Booth - and he said no?" A herd of elephants could have tap danced through the room and Angela would not have noticed.

"Are you aware that you're repeating yourself?"

"No!" Angela yelled, "I'm not even sure where I am right now! You," she pointed a finger at her friend, "said to Booth, come on stud, let's rip each others clothes off and do unspeakable things to each other. And he said no."

The wild gestures that accompanied Angela's question might have been amusing in other circumstances. Instead, Brennan frowned. "Well, not in those exact words but . . ."

"I need exact words, Brennan!" Angela cried out. "It's like . . . watching the universe explode! I need to know how it happened!"

"Well, I don't remember my exact words," Brennan admitted slowly, "but I clearly intimated -"

Angela's eyes narrowed to slits as her breath released in a rush. "Intimated. You _clearly __intimated_. You mean you HINTED?"

"No, it was obvious what I meant -"

Angela suddenly began slapping at her best friend's arms and legs as if the other woman were covered in crawling bugs. "Brennan! You hinted!"

Brennan drew back with surprise from the frustrated attack. "Angela!"

The carefully constructed world in her head, the one where her best friend and the hot FBI guy finally realized how crazy they were about each other, began to crumble at the edges. "You can't hint to Booth!" Angela wailed. "Not about something like that! He's the only person more confused about what you guys really are than you! You have to be clear!" she insisted. "You have to tell him! With words! With little words - or big words! You have lots of words! Take your pick!"

Brennan's chin lifted obstinately. "You weren't there. It was obvious to me that Booth understood what I was offering and his response was equally as clear. Our relationship is strictly professional."

"How can it be strictly professional if -" Angela bit off the comment and let her head fall back against the top of the sofa. Eyes closed, she whispered quietly but audibly, "Be supportive. Be supportive. Be supportive."

Finally, she looked at Brennan again. "Is there anything I can say, anything at all, that will change your mind, at least about using Booth?"

Brennan gave the question serious thought. "No. I am quite fixed on this course of action. And," she hesitated a moment before making a final revelation. "Booth has agreed."

"He agreed. Of course he did." Angela closed her eyes and shook her head, then stood up. "Okay, well then I'm going to open the other bottle of wine because I'm going to need it." Halfway across the room, she turned back. "And I'm going to need a pair of pajamas because I'm sleeping here tonight." Three more steps and she stopped again. "Also, I want to be called Auntie."

Brennan nodded and smiled affectionately. "That can be arranged."

With a huff, Angela continued on her way to the kitchen. The clanking of silverware and the noise from drawers and cabinets opening and closing drowned out all but scattered words from the muttered conversation she continued to have with herself.

_"Hinted, she . . . more words than a dictionary and she . . . good and strong and brave but oh, no, she's not . . . of course he agreed . . . idiots, both of them . . . "_

_._

_._

* * *

_AN: I promise I'm not being repetitive. First, I don't believe Angela would give up after just that first shocked conversation in Brennan's office and second, I'm building something here, people. Patience, grasshoppers. :-)_

_Thanks for reading!_

_P.S. Since it came up in a comment, the moment Brennan is referring to (well, the one I'm referring to actually) as Booth turning down sex is the infamous "there's a line we can't cross" conversation in _Man in the Cell._ And yes, the 'biological urges' conversation was earlier, the one Booth didn't get a chance to respond to because Angela (right?) interrupted them before he could. Brennan is combining the two events. She's wrong, obviously, but that's not all she's going to be wrong about. (I'm building, remember? Hear the jackhammers? ;-D)  
_

_Y'all keep me on my toes! Fun stuff!  
_


	6. Behind Closed Doors

_(Yes, you're getting this chapter early. Because I'm nervous and when I'm nervous I get anxious and when I'm anxious I get impatient and when I get impatient I just want to get the fucking thing over with! I have, like, one fingernail left, people! So . . . here it is. The chapter, not the fingernail.)_

**A word of warning:**_ This chapter goes a bit beyond my usual T-rating. I tried to keep it as clean and clinical as possible but after consulting with my legal advisor (many, many, many thanks to NatesMama for looking this over for me and for her patience with my panicked emails after said looking over), a warning is necessary. I made an attempt to pare it down but in the end, I just couldn't, not without damaging the overall tone of the scene. _

_I'm not changing the rating of this story. This chapter, however, you should consider as being M-rated and proceed accordingly. _

_Thank you._

_._

_._

* * *

_._

His phone pinged just after lunch.

**I've made an appointment for you at the fertility clinic on Friday at 8:30 am. Is that date/time acceptable? **

**If not, please give me an alternative and I'll reschedule.**

Surprised, Booth stared at the small screen for several seconds. _Already? I thought I'd have a couple of weeks to get used to the idea . . . _ He shook his head. When had Brennan ever waited instead of rushing full-steam ahead?

**thats fine**

**Are you certain? I don't want to interfere with your plans with Parker for the weekend, so I thought Friday morning was the best option. **

**yea its fine**

**Alright. I'll send you an email with the address and phone number, as well as a link to the facility's website. There's a page of instructions you might want to look over. **

He sneered down at his phone. _Instructions? I'm donating sperm. I think I know what to do._

**fine**

**It includes a list of foods to avoid, as well as other suggestions designed to maximize sperm count and motility. **

**They also request that you refrain from masturbation for three days prior to your appointment.**

Booth dragged a hand down his face, and sent up a grateful prayer that he was alone in his office. _She went there. I can't believe she -_

**That was another reason I chose Friday morning for your appointment. As it is only Monday, the three-day period is covered.**

He looked up at the ceiling and added a request for patience.

**ill try to restrain myself**

**Is masturbation a daily habit for you? If so, I apologize for intruding on your schedule. It's only three days, however, so it shouldn't be that difficult.**

Booth slumped down in his chair and let his head fall back. His hands slapped against his skin as his fingers spread out to cover his eyes. _No filter. The woman has no filter! She just says whatever she thinks! It would serve her right if I told her exactly how often I . . ._ He cut off the dangerous thought with a snort. _Yea, cause *that* wouldn't be awkward at all! _Jaw clenched, he sat up and reached for his phone. _What the hell am I doing? I can't do this. I can't. I just need to tell her I've changed my mind. Do it! Tell her! Tell her! _

**ill take a look at the website. going into a meeting, gotta go. bye**

Defeated, he tossed the phone to the desk and, elbows propped on a stack of paper, rested his head in his hands.

Several minutes later, his phone beeped again.

**Thank you, Booth.**

The words echoed in his thoughts for hours.

.

.

.

He spent the next three days trying to avoid her.

On Tuesday, they interviewed Charles Dunwood together. Faced with the evidence so far collected, the bargain vintner's story began to unravel and within minutes, he confessed to the murder of Spencer Holt. After sending him down to be charged and booked, Booth kept up a bright, nonstop stream of prattle, needlessly going over the details of the file again and again, leaving Brennan no opportunity to open a conversation about anything else. More than once he saw her brow wrinkle as she studied him curiously; he ignored the slight twinge of guilt it caused and, as quickly as he could, sent her away.

Back to the lab.

Where he had no intention of going.

Wednesday morning found him at the gym hours earlier than was his wont, a circumstance that proved fortuitous when he got out of the shower and found a voice mail left an hour earlier, casually suggesting breakfast.

He sent her a text with an explanation for his non-response.

Her reply was courteous and understanding.

He didn't offer lunch instead.

Neither did she.

On Thursday, he volunteered - _volunteered!_ - to travel to New York to interview a witness in a case about which he was only vaguely familiar. Educating himself on the file kept his brain busy on the flight up, the verbal ping pong match that followed filled a few more hours, and organizing the responses and his conclusions for the agent in charge took care of the trip back.

But as busy as he kept himself during the day, there was nothing he could do to shut off his thoughts when darkness fell.

She haunted his nights.

"_I want a baby."_

He might have drowned the memory of her words in a bottle of scotch but that outlet was denied him.

No alcohol.

_Goddamn "suggestions." My swimmers got past Rebecca's diaphragm just fine. They're obviously strong enough for . . ._

"_I want a baby."_

God.

He flipped channels into the wee hours of the morning, and fell asleep in random bouts of exhaustion that inevitably ended with visions of beautiful blue eyes shining with happiness.

"_Thank you, Booth."_

Jerked out of sleep again and again, he paced and prowled his small apartment and picked up his phone more than once to tell her - finally - that he'd changed his mind. That he couldn't do it. That . . .

"_I want a baby."_

Then he would sink down again onto the sofa, or into the comfort of the battered yellow leather chair, and the process would begin once more.

Until finally, at 8:15 on Friday morning, he was parked outside a squat, nondescript office building in Rockville, Maryland. A sandwich shop on the first floor boasted "Baltimore-style soft shell crab sandwiches!" On the other side, four stories up, the windows were covered with signage promising guaranteed, doctor-supervised weight loss. His fingers tapped restlessly on the steering wheel as he stared at the unmarked windows and stalled for time.

"_I want a baby."_

He had promised her.

"_Thank you, Booth."_

She was counting on him.

Shoulders stiff, jaw tight, he slid a pair of sunglasses in place and got out.

A small bronze plaque just inside the glass double doors of the building's entrance informed him that the Montgomery County Fertility & IVF Center was located on the second floor. He pressed the call button for the elevator and waited barely three seconds before, in a burst of impatient energy, he headed for the stairs.

The Center's door was solid, without a window, so no one saw him standing there, frozen, one hand clenched around the doorknob.

If he went inside, everything changed.

"_I want a baby."_

If he went inside, it would be too late.

"_I want a baby."_

His chest rose with the deep breath that filled his lungs. It was already too late.

.

.

.

The receptionist looked up when he entered the office. He approached the desk without expression.

"My name is Seeley Booth. I have an appointment at 8:30."

A few taps on the keyboard in front of her and she confirmed his words with a smile. "Yes, sir. If you'll have a seat, Dr. Matheson will be with you in just a few minutes."

The small waiting area was occupied; the other man, younger by a decade, looked up when Booth approached. They nodded greetings without speaking. Simply to fill the time, Booth reached for an out-of-date issue of _Sports Illustrated_ but before he even sat back, his name was called.

"Mr. Booth?" He got to his feet. She was tall and slender, African-American, her face a cool mask of professional detachment. "If you'll come with me?"

He followed her around the corner, into a small nondescript office furnished with two chairs on either side of a simple desk, an artificial ficus tree in the corner and a print of an ugly abstract splash of color on the wall. She held out her hand before waving him to a seat.

"I'm Charlotte Matheson, Mr. Booth. I'm the Center's director." When they were both settled she opened a brown folder and picked up a pen. "We like to have a staff member meet with our patients and donors briefly before we get you started. Have you donated sperm before?"

Booth maintained a blank facade. "No. No, this is the first time."

"Do you have any other children?"

"I have a son."

She made a notation, then looked up with a smile. "Well, it's a generous thing you're doing, Mr. Booth. I met with Dr. Brennan myself, she's very excited about the prospect of becoming a mother."

"Yes, she is."

She withdrew an inch-thick green booklet from within the file and passed it across the desk to him. "As this is a private arrangement between you and Dr. Brennan, you won't be subjected to the full screening procedures that our anonymous donors go through but we still require a thorough medical history. Some of the questions may seem intrusive but it is important to give the recipient as much information as possible so that she can make an informed decision and choose the healthiest donor for her child. Please answer honestly, and be as detailed as you can." She hooked a pen onto a clipboard and offered those to him as well. "Once you're finished, we'll get you set up in a private room so you can make your donation." She smiled easily. "Do you have any questions?"

He had a thousand questions, none of which he could ask or she could answer. When he shook his head, she stood up and headed for the door. "Well, then, I'll let you get to it. When you're done, just return the forms to the receptionist."

Alone, Booth stretched his neck until it cracked then picked up the booklet. For several seconds he simply stared at the cover; finally, he opened it and skimmed rapidly through several pages.

Age.  
Height.  
Weight.  
Education.  
Work history.

Pretty standard stuff. He thumbed open a few more.

_Do you suffer from any of the following conditions (please check all that apply):  
Have you ever been hospitalized?  
Do any members of your immediate family suffer from any of the following conditions (please check all that apply):  
Please list any medications you take regularly.  
Are you currently under the care of a physician?_

Jaw clenched, he turned the page and kept reading.

_Have you ever been diagnosed with or treated for a sexually transmitted disease?  
Number of sexual partners to date (please estimate if necessary).  
Have you ever had sexual intercourse (oral, vaginal, anal) with a prostitute?  
Have you ever had unprotected anal sex with a member of the same sex?  
What was the date of your last ejaculation?  
Have you had an HIV test within the last six months?_

His back teeth ground together as he flipped through the remainder of the booklet before he tossed the whole thing onto the desk.

In retrospect, getting sperm past a diaphragm sounded pretty easy.

"_I want a baby."_

Resolved, he jerked the pen off the clipboard and reached for the questionnaire.

Twenty-five minutes later, he handed the completed document over to the receptionist. Once more she waved him toward the waiting area, which now held two lone men and one forty-ish couple. This time he got through half of a month-old issue of _Time Magazine_ before his name was called again.

A middle-aged woman in scrubs waited until he approached and then led him down the opposite hallway, to a closed door marked with a number 4. She opened it, then reached in and flipped on a light.

"You can go in here," she said as she held out a small, clear plastic cup with a screw-on lid. He took it from her automatically. "When you're done, there's a small cabinet on the wall. Make sure the cap is on tight and put your sample in there. Then you're free to go." She gave him an encouraging smile as he hesitated in the doorway. "There are magazines, videos, that kind of stuff, if you need 'em."

He dropped his eyes and went inside. The attendant had already walked away when he shut the door and turned the lock.

He removed his suit coat, and as he did so, looked with dismay around the small, rectangular box of a room. A television, maybe 32 inches, he guessed, with a DVD player built-in, sat on a heavy black metal stand. Next to it was a small shelf, on top of which were scattered a variety of pornographic magazines and DVDs while the bottom shelf held a tube of lubricant and, incongruously, a bright blue plastic box of baby wipes and on the other side, a round, metal trash can. A wide leather chair faced the TV, with a remote control lying on the arm. A wobbly wooden coat tree stood in the corner.

The space smelled faintly of antiseptic and the fluorescent light overhead was bright and unforgiving. The whole effect was . . . tawdry.

He looked down at the cup nestled in the palm of his hand and, using his thumb, turned it as he read the label.

_Donor: Booth, Seeley J.  
Patient: Brennan, Temperance_

His fingers closed, hiding the words from view.

He set it down with a click of plastic against wood, amid the covers of magazines that revealed bare breasts and DVDs with teasing images of couples of different varieties in the throes of ecstasy.

He picked up one magazine at random and let it fall open. The photo spread involved a blonde female and a dark haired man and his attention was snared by the woman's face. Overdone makeup. Contorted expression. Manufactured passion.

He let it fall back with the others and sank down on the chair.

_What the hell am I doing here?_

His head fell back.

"_I want a baby."_

His eyes closed.

_She's never asked me for anything. _He snorted. _Except a gun. She's not getting a gun._

"_I want a baby."_

_It's not like I've never jerked off before. Just . . . not in a cup._

In the silence of the small room, the groan that escaped him sounded louder than it was. He sat up, embarrassed, and glanced at the closed door.

"_I want a baby."_

"I know!" He spoke out loud, then glanced at the door again.

"_I want a baby."_

He rubbed his hands over his thighs, digging his thumbs into the flesh above his knees.

"_I want a baby."_

_My baby. It will be my baby. She'll be carrying my child._

His head fell back against the chair again and he smiled at the ceiling as an image of her formed. Pregnant. Lush. Round with his child.

His body began to react and he resisted instinctively. Hers was the one face he never allowed himself to see when he pleasured himself. She was the one woman who was off limits, the one he couldn't . . . wouldn't . . . think of in that way.

It was too dangerous.

Too risky.

They were partners. That was all.

"_I want a baby."_

But it was different this time . . . wasn't it?

Wasn't he doing this for her?

She wanted a baby.

She wanted his baby.

Maybe . . . just this once . . .

He was suddenly hard and uncomfortable within the constraints of his slacks. Metal jingled as he fumbled with his buckle, with his zipper, until the fabric of his pants and underwear were bunched somewhere around mid-thigh and his right hand was wrapped around the engorged length of his penis.

He stretched his legs out and slumped down in the chair, let his head fall back and closed his eyes.

He could see her. Happy. Smiling. Beautiful eyes shining.

"_I want a baby."_

My baby. She's going to have my baby.

They would make a baby.

A rough breath of air escaped as his hand began to move slowly up and down.

She was right there. Swollen with his child. Breasts heavy and full.

His fingers stroked and squeezed. A groan rasped out of his throat.

His baby. She would have his baby.

They would make a baby.

They would . . . make . . . a baby.

The turgid flesh swelled even harder within his grasp.

He saw her, naked in front of him.

A tall, strong Valkyrie, blooming with the proof of his virility.

In front of him. Nude.

The dusky points of her breasts hard beneath his palms.

The speed of his hand quickened.

Long, long legs . . . his Amazon . . . his . . .

"_I want a baby."_

They would make a baby, the two of them.

His breath came in harsh pants as the images evolved, as the friction from his activity increased. His pelvis rocked forward, up.

Without thinking, only barely stopping, he released his hold only long enough to spit into the palm of his hand before he picked up the pace again. The sounds he heard, the ones that came from his own throat, from his own lungs . . . from his hand, stroking . . . flesh against flesh . . . provided a soundtrack to the vision that played out behind his closed eyes.

"_I want a baby."_

They would make a baby.

He could see her . . .

He could feel her . . .

Beneath him . . .

Opening for him . . .

Long, long legs . . .

Wrapped around him . . .

Drawing him in . . .

Velvet . . . soft . . . warm . . .

So warm . . .

Her beautiful face . . .

Pulling him down for a kiss . . .

Her lashes rose . . .

Her mouth opened in a moue of pleasure . . .

She looked up at him . . .

The blue eyes flashed with a streak of silver lightning . . .

_Booth . . . _

His body stiffened, legs extended, one foot digging so hard into the carpet that the chair he was sitting in pushed back several inches with a noisy scrape. Face contorted in a soundless scream, his chin arched up as he continued to stroke . . . stroke . . .

His hand grew wet and sticky, his body continued to spasm and jerk with every small glide of his fingers down the shaft of his penis.

The story continued to play out in his head, where he poured himself into her, where she clutched him closer and whispered in his ear, where tiny fireworks burst from the point where their bodies joined.

He struggled to catch his breath as his head slowly cleared. He was sweating, he realized, and his shirt was clinging in damp spots.

The dream faded.

The tawdry room returned.

He had made a mistake. He knew it immediately.

Using Brennan, seeing her like that.

Because he could still see her.

Because he could still hear her voice.

"_Booth . . . "_

He pushed the thought away and stared unseeing up at the ceiling, hand still wrapped around his softening flesh. At least it was over. He'd done it. He could -

The cup.

_Goddammit!_

The cup sat on the shelf beside the TV, where he'd placed it when he came in.

_Fuck!_

He grimaced distastefully at the sticky mess on his hand, at his pants and underwear now pushed even closer to his knees and cursed as he got to his feet, bent over uncomfortably, and hobbled the few feet until he could grab the cup and stumble back to the chair. He managed to open it with his clean hand and then scraped what he could of the viscous, milky semen that coated his fingers into the plastic container.

He stared at the results with dissatisfaction. It didn't look like much, but it had better be enough because . . .

He wasn't doing it again.

That was for damn sure.

He sat the cup aside and hobbled back for the baby wipes. Using more than he really needed he cleaned up his hand and his groin and, for good measure, ran one cool cloth down his overheated face. He was settling his clothes back in place when a glimmer of light caught his eye.

On the floor near the TV stand, a quarter-size dollop of cloudy, white fluid, the result of that first, violent spurt of his orgasm.

_GODDAMMIT! _

He snarled with fresh rage as he got down on his knees and scrubbed at the spot. Then he ripped another wipe from the box and scrubbed again and kept at it until . . .

Until he gave up, and sat back on his haunches and let his head hang forward.

Resigned.

Defeated.

He could see her.

He could feel her skin beneath his hands.

He could hear her voice.

"_Booth . . . "_

_Oh, God._

_What have I done?_

_._

_._

* * *

_._

_AN: The impetus for the way the final scene played out here was a comment Brennan made in _"Critic in the Cabernet" _about Booth's sperm count being taken from "a mere three milliliters of ejaculate." I've always found that particular phrase interesting. "Mere"? Was she expecting more? Should there have been more? Why was there so little as to be worthy of a mention as "mere"? Inquiring minds want to know. _

_(And now I'm thinking about Phoebe Cates and her "a quart or so" line from _Fast Times at Ridgemont High_. Heh.)_

_I try not to ask for reviews because it makes me a bit uncomfortable but to be honest, I'm already a bit outside my comfort zone with this chapter so if you do have an opinion, I'd love to hear it. Good or bad! I can take it! :-)_

_Thanks for reading!_


	7. The Secrets We Keep

3 MISSED CALLS

Returning to her office after a morning spent in bone storage, the tiny words jumped out from the screen of the phone. Reacting with an eagerness she didn't care to examine closely, Brennan reached for it, then deflated as she scrolled through the numbers.

None of them belonged to Booth.

She ruthlessly stamped out the twinge of disappointment that swept through her. It wasn't as if he was _required_ to contact her daily, after all. Theirs was a business relationship, a professional partnership. If there was no work, if there was no case, then . . .

And yet . . .

She ignored the voice mail indicator in favor of the tab for text messages.

Nothing. Not anything new, at least.

_sorry__, __went __to __the __gym __early__, __just __saw __ur __msg __abt __bfast__. __raincheck__?_

He'd sent that on Wednesday morning.

It was now Friday afternoon.

It was unusual, that was all, she told herself with an inward shrug. It was an anomaly that simply aroused her curiosity.

She dialed into her voice mail.

"_Dr. Brennan, this is Charlotte Matheson at Montgomery County IVF. Please give me a call when you have a few minutes to talk. The number is . . . ."_

The appointment this morning, Brennan mused as she dialed the number of the facility. Perhaps that was the reason there had been no contact from him. He could, on occasion, be ridiculously puritanical about -

"_Charlotte __Matheson__." _The line was answered on the second ring.

"Hello, Dr. Matheson. This is Temperance Brennan. I received your message, asking me to return your call."

"_Yes__, __Dr__. __Brennan__, __thank __you __for __calling __back__." _ The other woman's voice was warm and friendly. _"__Your __donor __came __in __for __his __appointment __this __morning__, __as __scheduled__, __and __I __have __the __results __for __you__."_

"One moment . . ." Brennan instinctively reached for a pen and a Jeffersonian-stamped pad of paper. "Alright, please continue."

"_He provided a sample in the 3 milliliter range, with approximately 28.8 million viable sperm with very good motility. The overall quality of the sample is excellent. I have no problem recommending its use for your ICI procedure."_

"Mmmm." Her comment was an indistinct murmur as she jotted down the information being relayed.

"_However__ . . ."_

The hesitancy in the single word captured Brennan's attention immediately. Her fingers tightened around the ink pen.

"Yes?"

"_We __require __every __donor __to __complete __a __health __assessment__," _Dr. Matheson continued. _"__In __reviewing __the __information __provided __by __yours__, __I __noticed __that __he __reported __what __I __would __consider __to __be __a __higher __than __usual __number __of __hospitalizations __over __the __past __twenty __years__, __including __several __as __recently __as just the last few years__. __I __wanted __to __make __you __aware __of __that __fact__, __and __to __also __let __you __know __that __I __do __have __a __number __of __other __candidates __who __meet __the __same __physical __standards__ - __height__, __weight__, __coloring__, __etc__. - __if __you__'__d __like __to __choose __a __donor __who __is __perhaps__ . . . __less __fragile__."_

Anger spiked, sharp and hot. "Booth is not fragile." Brennan immediately leapt to his defense. "He is the opposite of fragile; in fact, I consider him to be one of the strongest men I've ever known." Aware suddenly of the burst of temper, she forced herself to take two deep, calming breaths. "Thank you for the information, Dr. Matheson, but I assure you that I am completely aware of my donor's medical history and I am not concerned. At all."

"_Of __course__. __The __final __decision __is __obviously __yours __to __make__." _The smooth voice betrayed no emotion other than acceptance. _"__Looking __at __the __records __you __provided__, __I __see __that __your __period __was __scheduled __to __begin __on __Saturday__. __Did __that __happen __as __expected__?"_

"Yes." Brennan was more than willing to move beyond the uncomfortable topic of Booth's past injuries. "As evidenced by the charts in the file I gave you, my menstrual cycle is very regular."

There was a chuckle on the other end. _"By the time our patients decide to try IVF, most of them are fairly used to tracking their periods but I have to say, Dr. Brennan, I've never seen any file as complete as yours." _

"Thank you. I began documenting my menses when I was 14, as an exercise in creating detailed, thorough records," Brennan explained. "It's a habit I've continued over the years. I'm pleased you found it useful."

"_It __was __very __helpful__. __I __believe __we __can __safely __schedule __an __appointment __for __our __first __attempt__. __We __can __be __flexible __with __that __date__, __obviously__, __based __on __signs __of __ovulation__. __Are __you __ready __to __discuss __that __now__?"_

"Yes, I am." She didn't hesitate and when the call ended less than ten minutes later, two pages of the notepad beneath her hand were covered in her small, carefully neat handwriting.

For just a few seconds, she held the phone against her chest and stared with unfocused eyes out into her office. _I'm going to have a baby._ Her usually teeming, well-organized mind seemed to be capable of only that one thought as the magnitude of the moment struck. _I'm going to be a mother. _

"Hey, Brennan, can you look at these numbers?" Angela walked in, focused on the computer tablet in her hands. "I think I'm off somewhere -" She looked up as friend's unusual stillness finally registered. "Something wrong? Are you okay?"

The decision was made in an instant, almost before the idea crystallized in her brain. "I'm fine." The wonder of the moment was too new, the tiny flicker of hope too delicate to expose to Angela's still worried and unconvinced manner of being supportive. She hugged the secret close and instead pasted a professional, interested expression on her face. "What was it you wanted me to review?"

Angela frowned, intuitively recognizing the diversionary tactic. Before she could delve deeper, Brennan stood up and reached for the tablet.

"I believe these measurements are incorrect," she murmured, determined to stall any further questions. "But perhaps we should look at the bones again."

Unable to resist a last glance at her phone, once more lying quiet on the surface of the desk, she led Angela out of the office.

.

.

.

At home that night, she wandered her apartment, notebook in hand, and jotted down thoughts.

The spare bedroom could easily be converted into a nursery, although . . . she stood in the doorway and nibbled on the end of pen. _Perhaps __I __should __consider __buying __a __house__, __one __with __a __yard__. __Children __need __space __for __exercise__._

She made a note and added "room for live-in nanny" to the list. Bodies were frequently discovered late in the night; she was certainly used to having her sleep interrupted by a phone call from Booth . . .

Her head turned automatically toward the living room and a cell phone that remained obstinately silent. Resolute, she dragged her attention back to the task at hand.

She was scheduled to give the keynote address at an anthropology conference in December being held in Bern, Switzerland. It was possible she might be in her last trimester of pregnancy at that time. _Contact __organizers__, __SOFA __Bern __Conference__, __cancel __speaking __engagement__._

The list grew as the hours passed . . . there was so much to do.

It wasn't too early to interview candidates for nanny. Each one would need to be screened thoroughly, of course. _Perhaps __Booth __could_. . .

Another glance toward her phone.

Her attorney and accountant should be notified. Financial instruments would need to be amended, and her will . . .

There was the issue of who would care for the child in the event of her early death. She had agreed to assume guardianship for Russ' stepdaughters, perhaps he would . . .

But her baby would also biologically be Booth's child, perhaps he might want . . .

The notebook slapped against her thigh, the heels of her boots clicked loudly on the hardwood floor as she returned to the living room and picked up her phone.

No missed calls.

She scrolled through the text messages.

Nothing.

She found his number and paused, her thumb on the button marked with a small green telephone.

He and Parker were probably engaged in some activity designed to deepen the bond between father and son.

Or they were sitting in his apartment eating pizza together and watching one of those movies she never quite understood.

Either way, she would be intruding on their night if she phoned this late.

But . . . there had been no contact from him since Wednesday.

And it was Friday evening.

It wasn't as if they spoke to each other every day, there were many occasions where a full week passed between cases.

Well, perhaps not a week . . .

Slowly, deliberately, Brennan set her phone back down on the counter.

She stared at it for a moment, then reached for the notebook again.

She would hear from him soon enough.

When there was a body.

When there was a murder to be solved.

It was death, not life, that always brought them together.

.

.

* * *

_FYI, the plan is for this story to be 13 chapters in length, with the last one posted somewhere around September 13/14, just before the start of Season 9. Which means I have a lot to cover and just six more chapters to do it! Yikes!_

_Thanks for reading!_


	8. Where Angels Fear to Tread

_Hi__, __Bones__!_

_Good __morning__, __Parker__. __How __are __you__?_

_Awesome! Hey, Dad and me are going to get pancakes. Wanna . . . . What? . . . Oh, okay . . . __Dad__ and I __are going to get some pancakes. Do you want to come with us?_

_I __would __enjoy __that__, __thank __you __very __much__. __Where __should __I __meet __you__?_

_She __wants __to __know __where __to __meet __us__ . . _. _Dad __says __we__'__ll __pick __you __up__. __We__'__ll __be __there __in__ . . . __Huh__? __But __I __already __made __my __bed__! . . . __Fine__. __Bones__?_

_Yes__?_

_Dad __says __to __be __ready __in __about __thirty __minutes__._

_I __will__._

_Bye__!_

_See __you __soon__._

Parker handed the phone to his father. "Why do I have to make my bed again?" he whined. "I pulled the blanket up!"

Booth set it aside and deliberately ignored the jolt of nervous anticipation that fluttered through his gut. _It's just breakfast. I can do this. _"Yea, that's not how you make a bed. Come on, sport, I'll show you one more time."

.

.

In a meticulously clean kitchen across town, Brennan scraped the hot oatmeal she'd just prepared into the garbage disposal, stuck the bowl into the dishwasher without rinsing it first, and hurried to shower.

.

.

.

" . . . And I ate a whole pizza by myself!"

"An entire pizza?" Eyebrows raised, Brennan looked across the table at Booth.

He responded by nudging Parker with his elbow. "And then what happened?"

The boy grinned unrepentantly. "I threw up."

"I'm not surprised." She cut a small section from the stack of pancakes on her plate. "At your age, your stomach is much too small to hold that quantity of food. Your father should have known better."

"Hey, I warned him." Booth leaned over and bumped shoulders with his son. "Sometimes, you gotta let kids learn the hard way." His eyes flashed to Brennan then quickly away before she noticed. "Anyway, now you know, right?"

"Right!" Parker shoved a huge section of syrup-soaked goodness into his mouth. "And then . . ."

"Parker." The look on Booth's face, coupled with the warning tone of his voice, stopped the 8-year old from talking again until after he managed to swallow.

"And yesterday we went to this festival on the Mall," he said finally, his young voice pitching even higher in his excitement. "I saw a guy swallow a flaming sword!" His face turned disgruntled. "Dad said it was probably fake, though."

"Perhaps not," Brennan disagreed easily. "It takes a certain amount of skill - and it's very dangerous, of course," she added quickly when she noticed the look on Booth's face, "but it's possible it was more than just a circus trick."

"Can we go back, Dad?" Parker turned to his father and pleaded. "Please? Bones, can you come with us? You could see if it was real or not!"

Frozen in place, Booth stared at Brennan. Breakfast, it was just supposed to be breakfast. With Parker there, with his happy non-stop chatter filling any awkward silences . . . He couldn't spend the day with her . . . with her and him and Parker . . . the three of them, like a family . . .

She wore a lavender blouse, some sort of almost sheer thing . . . he could see the lace edging on the camisole beneath it. The color turned her skin to ivory and her eyes to silver . . . How did she do that? Almost every time he looked at her, her eyes were a different color . . .

"Dad?"

"Yea." He reached for his coffee and concentrated on keeping his hand steady. "Sure, sounds like a plan." He smiled over the rim at Brennan, who watched him warily, as if she'd picked up the scent of something new. "Unless you're busy," he added quickly. "If you have other plans today, then -"

"No." She shook her head and laid her knife and fork across a plate of half-eaten pancakes. "No, I have nothing scheduled this afternoon. I would enjoy going to the festival with you - with both of you."

"Cool!" Parker noticed none of the electricity that sparked between the two adults like frayed high-voltage wires. "Can I get a tattoo painted on my arm this time? Please?"

Booth set his cup down carefully and drew a deep, calming breath as he looked at his son. "We'll see." He spared a brief hope that his laughter didn't sound as forced as it felt. "No promises, though."

.

.

.

The sword swallower, it turned out, was not an early riser but there were plenty of other exhibits and vendors spread across the grassy field of the National Mall for the Islands of the Pacific festival. Booth and Brennan allowed Parker to lead the way as they wandered from one space to another, jostled by the heavy throng of visitors and tourists until Booth felt compelled to grab his son's hand to keep him close.

"No more wandering off, buddy," he scolded after a brief moment when the toffee-colored curls had disappeared from view. "Stick close."

"Okay." Parker shook off his father's hold just long enough to put himself between Booth and Brennan and capture a hand from each of them with his. "There. Now you can't lose me!"

Joined by the child between them, their eyes met over his head. Before either could respond, another excited exclamation burst from the young boy.

"Dad! There's the tattoo guy! Come on!" Tightening his grasp on their fingers, Parker dragged them to an open tent draped with dozens of long, colorful sarongs. Helping the trickle of curious shoppers was a very tall, heavily muscled, bronzed-skin young man wearing nothing but one of the more somber-hued sarongs tied loosely at his waist. Rising several inches above his hips, the dark lines of an intricately designed tattoo circled his body.

"This design is called the pe'a, Parker," Brennan immediately went into lecture mode as she studied the young man, who preened beneath her intense scrutiny. "It's beautiful work. It was done in the traditional method?"

His chest muscles flexed as Brennan inched around him. "Yes. I am Sa Su'a. Pe'a is my family's heritage."

"It's very impressive." She stepped closer and touched his skin with the tips of her fingers, then looked back at Parker. "The pe'a is still a rite of passage in some villages in Samoa. Men who are marked in this way are considered to have great courage, as the process is very painful and can take weeks to complete."

"Wow." Parker looked on in wonder. More of the tattoo was visible below the hem of the islander's sarong. "Does it go all the way to your knees?"

"It does." The dark eyes of the giant Samoan twinkled at Brennan as his hand went to the knot that held his sarong tied. "Want to see?"

"No, she doesn't."

The harsh words held more than a hint of warning as Booth shifted closer to Brennan's side. The young man responded immediately to the implied threat; chuckling, he held his hands up, palms out, and backed up one step. "No disrespect to your lady, dude. Just teasing."

"I'm not -"

"So can I get one, Dad?" Parker interrupted Brennan's automatic protest, and pointed toward a woman sitting just outside the awning, wearing a longer version of the sarong, putting the final touches on a floral vine that circled a teenage girl's ankle. "A little one? Please?"

"It's just henna," the artist looked up briefly. "At his age, it probably won't last more than a week, maybe ten days."

"Please, Dad?"

Booth hesitated. "I don't know, Parker. Your mom won't -" He shrugged and relented abruptly. "Yea, why not. But just a small one."

"How about a band right here?" The Samoan's fingers were gentle as he touched the nonexistent curve of Parker's bicep. He smiled at Booth in a gesture of peace. "Easily covered up until it's gone." With his father's nodding assent, Parker eagerly took the now vacant seat in front of the young artist and stuck out his arm.

"Will Rebecca be very upset?" Brennan asked quietly, watching beside Booth as the outline of the design began to take shape on the boy's limb.

One shoulder lifted haphazardly. "If she's not mad at me for letting him get this, she will be for letting him eat until he puked." His grin was wide and playful. "Might as well get two for one."

She responded with a laugh that faded quickly as she took advantage of what was almost a moment of privacy between them. "I spoke to Dr. Matheson on Friday." She peeked at him from the corner of her eye. "About the sample you provided."

His heartbeat stuttered; without looking at her, Booth concentrated on keeping his gaze focused on the straight lines being drawn on his son's arm. "Yea," he nodded. "She called me, too."

"She was very pleased with the quality," Brennan continued, oblivious to his reaction. "With the count and the mobility." She chanced another quick glance at his profile. "According to her, you have excellent sperm."

A flush crept up beneath his jaw as the memory of the tawdry little room surfaced. He stretched his neck and deliberately tamped the image down. "She . . . mentioned that." _Just once, I couldn't have been shooting blanks? Just once? My excellent sperm couldn't have taken one day off? _

" . . . appointment in two weeks."

That got his attention immediately. "What?" Shock overcame his discomfort as his head swiveled toward her. "What's in two weeks?"

"I've scheduled an appointment for the first attempt at insemination." Her smile was brilliant and happy; whatever reservations he had were obviously not shared. "Contingent on the signs of ovulation, of course."

"Already?" _Already? _"Don't you have to . . ." His thoughts were a disorganized, spinning jumble of words and images. _ Already? _". . . I don't know, take vitamins for a couple of months and keep track of your - your -"

"Menstrual cycle?" Brennan obligingly filled in the words caught in his stammer. He managed a nodding agreement. "My menses are very regular. I've been collecting my personal data since the age of 14 so I already had those records. Besides," she spoke with assurance, "I see no reason to wait. I'm not going to change my mind."

"Well, okay, but . . ." _But I'm not ready yet. What about me?_

_. . . Two weeks?_

"Dad, look!" Parker called out in excitement from his seat under the shade of the awning. "Isn't this cool!"

Brennan's expression turned thoughtful as she looked at the young boy. "Parker will be a good brother." Booth's eyes flew back to her in surprise; upon noticing his reaction, she hesitated. "Biologically speaking, he and . . . and my child . . . will be siblings. They will have you in common." Her gaze moved from father to son. "I assumed you would tell him . . . about the baby, I mean."

Booth could only stare at her, his mouth hanging open.

For the first time, Brennan looked uncertain. "Not that you have to, of course." Once again, her quick glance fluttered between the two Booths. "Have you thought about that?" she asked slowly. "About whether or not you'll tell him? I understand if you choose not to." She spoke quickly, nervously, arms crossed protectively over her chest. "It might be confusing for him, of course. Maybe you're right. You should wait until he's older."

Booth had still not spoken.

Her chin lifted, she risked one more glance in his direction. "That is completely your decision, of course. Whatever you decide is . . . fine."

A wall of sound roaring in his ears, Booth stared across the small space that separated them from Parker. He didn't see the tent or the colorful rectangles of fabric waving in the breeze. He didn't see his son, or hear the noise made by the jostling crowd or feel the damp muggy warmth of the May sunshine.

_Tell Parker? Tell Parker? Tell him . . . what? That we're . . . that Bones and I are having a baby? No. No, that Bones is going to have a baby and, okay, yea, technically it's mine . . . technically I'm the father but . . . _

_Tell Parker? How do I explain that to an eight-year old when I can't explain it to myself?_

_How the hell am I supposed to tell Parker?_

He welcomed the distraction when his son jumped up from the chair and ran over to show off the finished tattoo. The band was a simple design, perhaps an inch wide, filled in with lines and geometric shapes. It bore only a superficial resemblance to the pe'a that decorated the big Samoan but it was enough to make the small boy happy. He rolled up his sleeve to make sure it was visible and spent the rest of the day repeatedly lifting his skinny arm to admire the dark pattern on his pale skin.

And somehow, Booth made it through the next few hours, too. He barely heard one word out of every three, but thankfully, his participation wasn't necessary as Brennan took the opportunity to explain to Parker what she knew of the different cultures represented in the festival. Lost in the fog that clouded his own thoughts, Booth didn't notice the odd tone to her rambling, or the brittle speed at which she added some new piece of information whenever a moment of silence fell. He followed behind her, or beside Parker, occasionally injecting a bit of laughter or a random "Wow, really!" when it seemed as if a response was required until finally, he looked at his watch and gratefully brought the outing to an end.

He drove her home, where he turned on his strobe lights and double-parked in front of her building so that he and Parker, like the gentleman they were, could walk her upstairs to her door, where she hugged the smaller Booth, and bent over to accept his goodbye kiss on her cheek.

When she straightened, her eyes met those of the grown-up Booth.

They had the same thought.

In two weeks, she might be pregnant.

With his child.

They had the same reaction.

Booth stepped back, away from her.

Brennan stepped back, too, into her apartment.

Their farewells were too casual, the small laughs they shared too loud, the looks they stole at each other too quick to dart away, lest any part of the truth be revealed.

With nothing more than his presence, Parker had taken the nebulous, hazy outline of a child - of their child - and made it solid and real.

A life that had not yet been created took shape and form.

And it stood between them.

.

.

* * *

_For the record, I still don't like Parker calling Brennan 'Bones.' And in my _Roots & Wings_ world, he ain't gonna. So there.  
_

_Thanks for reading!_


	9. Of Moths and Flames

On Tuesday afternoon, human remains were found in the ruins of an old factory that had been demolished to make way for a new building meant to house congressional offices. Booth and Brennan arrived at the crime scene separately, with their respective teams, and proceeded to treat each other with such brittle, careful politeness that within minutes, both groups were tense and on edge and prepared for a different kind of explosion.

But nothing happened. Instead, their strained smiles grew ever more fixed, glued in place by a forced professionalism that fooled no one.

After two hours - and more 'thank you' and 'please' than she'd heard them say to each other in 3 years - Camille Saroyan had had enough. Sifting through the rubble of what had once been a bustling workplace, searching for pieces of what used to be a living person, she waited until Booth stomped off to relieve his frustration by yelling at the foreman for the site.

"Is everything okay?" Across a heap of broken rock and dirt, she looked at Brennan, whose attention stayed focused on the area she was at that moment carefully sifting through.

"Bag." She held up a jagged section of a man's left arm; an FBI tech rushed over with an open evidence sleeve. "Yes, everything is fine," she replied finally, eyes still averted, her voice stiff. "Why do you ask?"

Busy scooping samples of soil and refuse into small glass jars, Hodgins glanced quickly at Cam and shook his head. She ignored his unspoken advice. "Why? Because - because you and Booth are tiptoeing around each other like you're both carrying nitroglycerin, that's why! You're scaring people - and by people I mean me," she added sharply. "And Dr. Hodgins here."

"Leave me out of this." He backed out of the area quickly.

Cam frowned after his retreating shadow. "Some help you are." When she turned back, Brennan's expressionless gaze was fixed on her.

"Is there something you'd like to say, Dr. Saroyan?"

In the time it took to draw in the breath to reply, Brennan's chin lifted defiantly and Cam's resolve melted. "Well, not anymore." The muttered words were spoken to the pile of debris beneath her feet.

"Then perhaps we should continue searching for the remaining pieces of the victim." With that succinct pronouncement, Brennan moved to another mound of refuse. A ragged bit of leather caught her eye; after a few minutes careful excavation, she removed an old filthy boot and the foot that still wore it. "Bag."

.

.

.

Once the bones were reassembled, the victim was quickly identified as one of the many homeless souls who wandered the streets of the nation's capital. Close examination revealed evidence of decades of malnutrition and alcoholism but no obvious signs of foul play and, as the dismemberment of his body was clearly shown to have taken place postmortem, the conclusion drawn was that the unfortunate man had simply taken shelter in the building and drawn his last breath without being discovered, and the blast that brought down the building had done the rest.

Via email, Brennan relayed the findings to Booth on Thursday afternoon. No murder. No case.

Her hand hovered about the SEND key for two full minutes before she sent the message into the ether. Impersonal. Professional. Brusque.

His reply took ten minutes, five of which he spent staring at his computer screen.

_Got it__. __Thanks__._

Simultaneously, in separate offices less than one air mile of distance apart, two people reached for their phones - and almost immediately set them aside again.

Booth stalked out of his office in search of coffee he didn't want.

Brennan spent the rest of the day in bone storage.

At 6:30 that night, barely seconds after she arrived home, her phone pinged.

_out of town for a few days. anything comes up flynn will work w/u_

_Agent __Flynn__? __I __don__'__t __like __him__._

_he __doesn__'__t __like __u __either __so __be __nice_

_Where __are __you __going__?_

_wherever __they __send __me_

_How __long __will __you __be __away__?_

_not __sure__. 3 - 4 __days __plus__/__minus__. __call __u __when __I __get __back__? _

_Yes__, __thank __you__. _

_k__. __bye_

_Goodbye__._

Brennan read through the short conversation once more, her brow furrowed as she considered the words. Years ago she'd told him she didn't pay attention to anything that happened after the Industrial Revolution.

That was no longer true.

Because of him.

She opened her laptop.

There it was, in the headlines of the first news site she pulled up. A gunman - angry, bitter, anti-government militia, any or all of the above, every opinion seemed to be different - had barricaded himself in a cabin in the mountains of Colorado. He'd been there for 48 hours. He was rumoured to have explosives and known to have weapons. There were hostages, including a 7-year old girl.

She knew without being told. That's where he was being sent.

Her hands fell to her lap as she read the story again. It fit the pattern - infrequent and random but a pattern nonetheless, and one she'd learned over the years to recognize. Suddenly called away to a location never specified for a period of time never defined, always against the backdrop of a situation that made national news, fraught with danger and rumours of death. When he returned, he never told her where he'd been. She never pressed him for details.

He always came back. That fact should have eased some of the tension that held her shoulders stiff.

But now . . . her fingers brushed against the concave curve of her abdomen.

In nine days, she might be pregnant.

With his child.

_No. My child. My baby._

But technically . . . Facts were undeniable and biologically . . .

She was fully prepared to raise the child alone. Expected to do so. Had, in fact, already begun to prepare for it.

She would ask nothing from him. Planned to ask nothing of him.

Still . . .

She blinked and a memory surfaced. A summer afternoon at the pool. Parker, crawling over his father's back. Booth, pretending to fall, sinking beneath the water only to surface, roaring, lifting the laughing child high in the air, falling with him back into the clear blue depths.

It was natural to be concerned, she told herself. He was an excellent father, she had ample evidence to prove the truth of that statement. Children performed better with a strong male presence in their lives. She simply wanted the best for her child . . .

Her teeth left tiny groves in her lower lip as she read more about the stand-off. Giving into impulse, she opened her email and quickly dashed off a short message informing everyone at the lab of her intention to work from home the next day.

She spent the next two hours following different links that all told the same story and used the same details. After a restless night of little sleep, she spent most of Friday as she had most of Thursday evening - relentlessly searching for more information.

She was on-line late in the day, when shots were fired inside the ramshackle cabin. She was still there, at her laptop, an hour later when the front door opened and the body of one of the hostages was dumped onto the sagging porch.

She paced her living room and then the kitchen, where she prepared a meal she didn't eat, and finally fell into a fitful doze at her desk, head on folded arms, in front of her laptop.

She woke before dawn, neck stiff, arms tingling painfully, with a dent in her forehead the shape of her wrist, to discover that it was all over. Every site she visited breathlessly trumpeted the same words over a blinking video link: _WARNING__: __GRAPHIC __VIOLENCE__! _

The sound was distorted and buzzy, the short footage blurry, colored in night vision shades of green and black and white that disguised the details but highlighted the horror of the events they revealed. The gunman, standing on the porch, the small child a living shield forced to stand in front of him by an arm wrapped around the small neck. A sudden flurry of movement, his fist striking the child's head, the small body falling at his feet. A hand raised, the outline of a weapon clearly visible . . . and then a single shot, clearly audible, from outside the camera's range. A small black circle appeared between the gunman's eyes an incalculable microsecond before a dark pattern blossomed on the door behind his head. Then he dropped - hard - to the ground.

She replayed the scene over and over - the child struck, the gunman dead, the mad rush of heavily armed officers toward the scene. She studied every face, searching for him without success.

"_I__'__ve __done __some __things__ . . ."_

There was nothing to do but wait.

It was after 8:00 pm when the sound of a tiny melodic chirp had her scrambling for the phone.

_back. anything comes up now im here_

_I__'__m __glad__._

_yea, no flynn :-)_

_Yes__._

_think i might ask if can take P. out for bfast again tomorrow. wanna go w/us?_

_Why don't I prepare something here? If Rebecca will allow him to stay with you for a few hours, we can spend the afternoon at the pool. _

_sounds __good__. __let __u __know_

_Alright__._

An idea formed and refused to budge.

She looked at her watch. Almost 8:30.

Her eyes slid toward the kitchen. It would be 10 o'clock or later . . .

She paced the length of her living room once, too unsettled to rest.

She couldn't sleep.

And she knew he wouldn't, not tonight.

The decision was made in a snap.

.

.

.

Head tipped back, Booth swallowed the last of another two fingers of bourbon, then looked at the empty glass tumbler and considered pouring himself a third. A sharp knock at the door had him setting the glass aside.

He pulled it open without looking through the peephole and stared in surprise at Brennan. "Bones." He looked over his shoulder toward the phone on the coffee table. "I thought we said tomorrow -"

"We did." She nodded stiffly and lifted the foil-covered glass baking dish she held. "I . . . I thought you might be hungry."

"You brought me food?" Taken aback, he let the offering hang there without reaching to take it from her.

"Yes." She looked uneasy and somewhat uncertain and watching her, he was suddenly aware of the lateness of the hour, of the night outside, of the darkness she'd traveled through to get to him. She wore jeans and a simple crimson blouse, her hair was loose and soft and her face free of makeup. Her unannounced appearance . . . without the guise of work, without even the armor of makeup to hide her expression . . . struck hard, on this night especially, as he bowed beneath the weight of his own vulnerability.

He'd contacted her without thinking, instinctively reaching out after his return home because . . . well, because she was always first in his thoughts. Even now, with the strain and discomfort of their most recent interactions cringing in his memory, he had wanted . . . needed . . . that connection. Just to know she was there was enough.

But here she was, in front of him, standing in the doorway as if he'd conjured her up from his unspoken, desperate need.

As if she felt the same hunger for the comforting reassurance of his presence.

He stepped back. "Come in."

He snapped the deadbolt in place and when he turned around, saw her glance sweep the living room, travel across the small black duffle bag he'd dropped in front of his bedroom, and linger on the long, rectangular case that held his rifle.

_Ahhhh__. _ He'd often wondered if she knew . . .

She faced him, looked him in the eye.

_Of __course __she __knows__. _

He waited, chest tight, jaw clenched, eyes dark and shuttered, body tense in anticipation of . . . questions? Condemnation?

Her head tilted, just a few degrees . . . a fraction of an inch . . . Then her face softened, her lips curved. She nodded once. No questions. No condemnation.

Not forgiveness.

Acceptance.

Of who he was. Of what he was. Of what he was sometimes called to do.

The tension drained from his shoulders and the breath he took, deep and cleansing, filled his lungs with her . . . with the soft, floral scent of her hair and the warm, rich smell of her skin. Just like that, with a tiny smile that blazed through him with a flood of warmth and light and chased away, at least for now, the shadows that haunted him. Because she was there.

She offered the foil-covered dish to him again. "I know this is a particular favorite of yours."

He reached out, careful not to allow their fingers to touch. A smile tugged one corner of his mouth up as he sniffed appreciatively. "Did you make me mac-n-cheese?"

"I have offered many times to give you the recipe -"

He shook his head. "It's better when you make it." He carried it to the kitchen and placed it on the bar, then returned to stand in front of her, arms crossed over his chest. His biceps bulged from the sleeves of the faded grey t-shirt he wore. "Thanks."

A silent battle raged inside his head.

_Don't go. Don't leave me alone._

_Get out now! Before I ruin everything. Go!_

"You're welcome." Seconds ticked away in silence before she coughed softly. Uncomfortably. "Well . . . I'll see you tomorrow morning. Anytime is fine," she added quickly. "I'll be up early." She turned toward the door.

He meant to let her leave.

She meant to go.

The awkwardness returned, born of the distance between them and formed in the shape of a child.

He saw a little girl, looking at him with her mother's eyes.

She saw a small boy, smiling at her with all the devastating charm of his father.

She meant to leave.

He meant to let her go.

And yet, just before she moved beyond his reach, one hand shot out and captured hers.

"Stay."

She stilled instantly, and stared at him across the span of the length of their joined hands. She blinked, one single slow sweep of dark lashes.

"If . . . if you want to, I mean . . . if . . ."

Her fingers tightened around his. "Of course."

His fingers returned the pressure.

_Of course?_

_Of course she would stay?_

_Of __course __she __wanted __to __stay__?_

He didn't ask.

And she couldn't have answered.

Their hands separated and fell away by slow degrees and when he was free, he clapped once.

"So," his grin was wide as a relieved, almost delirious happiness swept over him. "Are you hungry?" His thumb pointed over his shoulder toward the kitchen. "Because I have some excellent mac-n-cheese."

She laughed at his silliness, sharing in the wave of euphoria without considering why it would be so. "I could eat." She pulled out a bar stool while he busied himself finding plates and silverware.

"I still have that bottle of wine you left the last time you were here. Want me to open -"

She was already shaking her head. "No, it's late. Milk will do, if you have it."

Within a few minutes they were sitting side by side, forks in hand. Booth took the first bite and immediately groaned in loud appreciation.

"God, this is so good."

Brennan smiled and toyed with her own helping. "I hope I'm not intruding," she offered hesitantly. "If you were busy or . . . did I interrupt -"

"Nah." He had followed her example and poured himself a large glass of milk; he drank deeply before continuing. "I wasn't doing anything, just . . . TV, maybe. I think there's a John Wayne marathon going on."

"I love him!" Her face grew animated. "Is it on now?"

"I don't know," Booth shrugged. "We can find out." He started to rise, then sat down again and stared at her with dramatically obvious suspicion. "You're not going to do your impression of the Duke, are you?"

She was insulted, as he'd planned. "I do a very good impression of John Wayne."

"No, you don't." He was teasing and playful. "You're awful."

Her mouth fell open. "My mother always told me I did wonderful impressions."

He gave a loud snort. "Yea, well mine told me she loved my singing."

She gaped at him. "So my mother was lying to me?"

Booth choked on the bite he'd just taken. "Oh, that's where you go? Just like that? Was my mother lying to me?"

He laughed when she blushed and looked away. "Perhaps we should see if the movie is on."

He leaned over and bumped her shoulder with his. "Good answer."

They moved to the sofa and sat with barely a foot of space between them. Booth found the remote control and scanned channels and soon enough, images from _The__ Alamo _filled his TV screen.

Brennan's lip curled derisively. "Oh. I don't like this one."

"What? Why?" Booth shifted into a comfortable seat and continued eating. "It's great!"

"This movie is full of historical inaccuracies. For one -"

"Stop." He pointed his fork at her. "Just enjoy it."

"How can I enjoy a film that -" The fork went up again. "Fine."

Jim Bowie swaggered on-screen just before the final battle began.

"Can I just say that -"

"No."

"Fine."

When the next commercial aired, Booth scooped the last curl of pasta into his mouth and leaned forward to set the empty plate on the coffee table. "So," his glance at her was quick as reached for his drink. "Saturday . . . your . . . appointment . . . it's Saturday, right?"

All thoughts of the movie fled; she lowered her plate to her knees. "Yes." A peek at him through her lashes found him spinning the glass of milk between his hands.

"Right." He was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, concentrating intently on the drink he held. "Do you . . . I don't know, need a ride . . . or, you know, anything . . ."

A line appeared between her eyebrows. "No. No, I can drive myself."

"Okay." He shrugged too quickly. The glass continued to turn in his hands. "Okay. I just thought . . . because if you did . . . if you . . ."

"It's not surgery." The words escaped in a rush. She moved the plate from her knees to the table before sitting back, her posture ramrod straight. "There's no anesthesia involved."

"Oh." One fleeting glance danced off her profile. "Okay."

"The method is called intracervical insemination." Brennan jumped into lecture mode to fill the silence that fell. "It's a very simple procedure, really. The semen . . . that you . . . donated . . . is drawn into a hollow syringe, which is then inserted into the vagina. The object is to . . . Oh, it's not painful." His eyes locked on hers in a wide-eyed look of horror she misinterpreted. "The syringe is much smaller than the average penis and the vagina can accommodate . . ." Her voice faded away when he began to shake his head violently. "Oh. You don't want to know how . . ."

His head continued to shake.

"Okay."

The movie picked up when the commercial ended. Booth suddenly remembered the drink in his hands and set it down with a snap of glass against wood.

As one, they stared unseeing at the images that moved across the screen.

"It might not be successful," Brennan blurted out suddenly. "This first attempt," she clarified when his head turned toward her. "The success rate is approximately 15% for the initial procedure. No different, really, than the possibility of becoming pregnant after . . . one . . . act of intercourse."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. Reflexively, she mimicked the action.

"One." The word was a whisper.

"mmm mmmm." She couldn't manage even that.

His chin lowered, his lips curved in a smile as wickedly sinful as Eden's serpent. "No," he rasped, as the heat in his eyes warmed her own, "once wouldn't be enough."

The silence lengthened, the air between them became thick and heavy.

An explosion on-screen caused them both to jump visibly; simultaneously they leaned forward and reached for the glasses on the table. Brennan didn't notice the one in her hand was empty.

The movie went to another commercial.

"Do you want to go with me?" She was now spinning the glass between her fingers. Her voice was quiet, the question hesitant.

"Well, yea," he answered immediately and then just as quickly backtracked, shifting uncomfortably beside her when she looked at him. "I mean, no . . . not if you . . . but if you do . . . you know, it's up to you . . ."

"Okay." She breathed deeply, nodded and looked at the TV. "Thank you."

"Okay?" His brow furrowed as he stole another quick glance at her. "So, yea? You want me to -"

"Only if you want to," she hurried to assure him, searching his eyes as he searched hers. "It's fine if you don't -"

"No. Yea. Yea." He continued to nod as he spoke. "It's good. I'm good. I'd like to . . . to be there."

"Well, then," she smiled tentatively, "thank you."

"Sure." He was still nodding. "Yea. Sure."

Another commercial aired, this one several decibels louder than the movie it interrupted. Booth reached for the remote control as Brennan stood up.

"I should go. It's late."

"Now?" He rose with her. "It's not that late, is it?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "If you and Parker are coming over tomorrow -"

"Right. I sent a message to Rebecca, I'll let you know what -"

"Okay."

"Let me put some shoes on, I'll walk you down." With his toes, he fished for a pair of slippers half-hidden beneath the end of the sofa.

"You don't have to -"

"Bones." He stopped her with a look.

She opened the door and waited just over the threshold while he found his keys and locked up. Out of unspoken agreement, they headed for the stairs instead of the elevator.

Outside, the night was muggy and warm, and still damp from the day's humidity. They walked without speaking the few yards down the street to Brennan's car. Lights blinked, the doors chirped as she unlocked it with the press of a button. Booth reached the driver's side first and pulled it open.

"What time is your appointment on Saturday?"

They stood in the almost deserted street, with the open door between them, their faces lit by the headlights of an occasional passing car.

"Oh, 9:30?" She cleared her throat self-consciously and repeated the information more definitely. "9:30. My appointment is at 9:30."

"Okay." He nodded. His hand tapped restlessly along the top of the window. "So, 8:30, then? I'll pick you up at 8:30?"

"Yes." She made no move to get into her vehicle. "8:30 is fine."

"Unless . . ." The dim glow of a streetlight twenty yards away threw his face into a sharply edged study of shadows and angles. "Do you want to get some breakfast first?" He shrugged and looked at his fingers gliding along the top of her door. "I noticed a sandwich shop on the first floor of . . . We could . . . if you think . . ."

"Breakfast would be nice." She wasn't looking at him any more than he was looking at her.

"Okay. 8:00, then. I'll pick you up at 8:00."

"Yes." She put one foot inside the car.

"And I'll let you know as soon as I hear from Rebecca about tomorrow." He backed away two steps.

"Alright." A car sped by; in the brief illumination their eyes met. "You could come over anyway," she offered quietly. "If Parker can't. You could spend the afternoon at the pool. If you wanted to."

"Thanks." Her beauty hit him with the sharp blow of a punch to the gut. He stuffed his hands deep in his pockets and stepped further away. "I'll bring your dish back."

"I have others."

They stood in silence for a moment longer before he forced himself to step up, onto the curb. "Well, goodnight then."

"Goodnight." Her body tilted as she leaned into the car, before she abruptly straightened again. "Booth?"

"Yeah?" He watched her carefully.

Her gaze went back to his window and then to him. "You'll be okay? You'll sleep?" The malevolent threat of the rifle's black case rose with her words.

His smile was soft and grateful. "I will now."

She nodded, relieved. "Good. Then I'll see you tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." The door closed behind her; he slapped the roof of the car as the engine roared to life.

She leaned forward to see him through the passenger window and waved.

His hand lifted in farewell and she drove away.

He looked on until the red glow of her car's taillights was lost in the distance.

..

* * *

_What, you thought I'd get Booth and Brennan alone in the night, open and vulnerable, and have them fall on each other in a fit of ravenous hunger? _

_Pffft. Too easy. :-)_

_Thanks for reading!_


	10. A Journey Of A Thousand Miles

It is one of life's more uncomfortable truths that time has a nasty habit of speeding by, often in direct proportion to how much we wish it would instead crawl. Sitting across from Brennan in the small sandwich shop housed in the same building as the fertility clinic, watching her swirl a spoon in oatmeal she had yet to taste, Booth had plenty of time to ruminate on that fact.

They picked up a case on Monday and another one on Thursday, and the days had flown by as he watched her . . . and she watched him. The thought of what they were about to do was never far from the surface, and brought with it an awareness that sizzled between them on a current so strong that everyone around them felt the vibration.

Cam called twice and stopped by his office once, an encounter he dodged by virtue of being in his boss's office at the time, delivering a status report. He'd never been so grateful for those boring meetings before.

He wondered if Brennan was dealing with similar well-meaning interference but didn't know how to ask.

He wavered . . . and wavered again, tossed about like dandelion seeds drifting in the winds of a hurricane, one minute deciding he had no business going with her and the next knowing he would never be able to stay away.

_Technically__, __she __invited __you__. __Okay__, __you __brought __it __up __first __but __then __she __asked __you __so __really__, __you__'__re __doing __her __a __favor__. _

_And __last __Sunday__, __with __Parker__, __somehow __she __fixed __it __with __Rebecca __so __you __could __have __him __all __day__, __so __you __kinda __owe __her__. _

_Besides__, __you __were __there __when __your __first __child __was __conceived__, __might __as __well __be__ t__here __for __this __one__, __too__._

He responded to his internal conversation with an audible snort and then froze when Brennan's quick glance up from her bowl snagged his.

"Something wrong with the oatmeal?" He tried to maintain an easy, casual tone, as if he hadn't been covertly studying her since he'd first arrived at her apartment that morning.

"It's fine." She shrugged and immediately scooped a bite into her mouth before pointing at his plate with the spoon. "Your eggs are getting cold."

"Oh, they were too hot anyway." He shoveled in a heaping forkful that almost came right back out with a stream of bile. With difficulty, he chewed and swallowed and tried to smile. "Mmmm."

The spoon hit the table top with a clatter as Brennan's hands dropped to her lap. "I believe . . . I am experiencing anxiety." The words started with slow hesitation and ended in a hurried confession.

Tableware rattled again when Booth pushed his plate away at once and leaned in toward her, fingers laced together on the laminate surface. "Then don't do it."

"You don't want me to have a baby?"

He cursed himself mentally for being the cause of the glimmer of pain he saw in her expression and quickly backpedaled. "No, I mean . . . I do. I do," he insisted with a nod of his head. "I do. I didn't mean . . . I just meant that if you're scared -"

"I'm not frightened." She was quick to argue the point, even as the fresh resolve struggled with an uncertainty that was obvious to him. "It's just . . . I couldn't sleep last night and . . ." She reached with both hands for the half-full glass of orange juice in front of her. "My whole life will change." One thumb circled the rim of the drink.

"Yea." He watched her carefully, noted the eyes that avoided his, the careful concentration on the beverage in her hands. His gut churned; fancifully, he imagined he could hear a squeal as the coil inside his stomach that had wound tighter and tighter over the last week turned another notch. "Yea, it will."

"But change is a good thing, isn't it?" Her gaze lifted then, to meet his. "You're always telling me that I'm too mired in my usual habits."

"Yea, but this is a baby, Bones." Their glances locked. "A person. It's not like . . . like, trying a new brand of coffee and then deciding you don't like it. You can't go back." He hesitated for only the span of time it took to draw breath, then plunged forward. "If you're having doubts now - "

"Do you ever regret having Parker?"

"No." His response was instant. "No, never." One shoulder lifted slightly. "I'm sorry things didn't work out with Rebecca," he admitted honestly. "Sorry that we couldn't, you know, make it work but Parker?" His smile was wide and loving. "Parker makes my life 110% better." He couldn't resist the gentle, familiar tease and was rewarded with a tilt of her chin and a hint of laughter in her eyes.

The light moment faded quickly. "Rebecca seems to manage very well alone."

"She's not alone . . . she has me." The drumbeat of a pounding heart filled his ears. Giving into the impulse, he risked the opportunity offered by the flow of conversation. "So will you." He reached across the few inches of space that separated their hands and rested his fingers on hers, around the curve of the glass she still held. "If that's what you want."

Seconds ticked away as she studied the sight . . . his short, well-kept nails close to the buffed ovals of her own, the strength in the tanned fingers lying against her pale skin. A bubble descended over the table, shutting out the noise of other diners, of the tinkling of the cash register and the bells that jangled when the door opened.

"It doesn't seem quite fair to you," she said, when she finally looked up. Her fascinating eyes seemed to change color as she blinked, first blue, then green, then silver. "Having a baby was my idea. It wasn't your choice."

With what felt like Herculean effort, he focused on her words. "It was my choice to help," he pointed out. One side of his mouth quirked. "I could have let you use that professor at Georgetown."

She gave in to a brief smile before her face became earnest again. "I don't want you to worry that I will make demands of you. I'm quite self-sufficient."

His stomach knotted as her fingertips fluttered and stretched up to intertwine with his.

"I know."

Neither noticed that the light touch of their hands had become a caress.

"And of course, I don't expect anything of you financially."

"You're rich. Got it." His brown eyes were warm and soft as he smiled across the table at her.

"Statistically speaking, children perform better with a strong male influence in their lives." Her tongue darted out to moisten dry lips. "If, on occasion, you wanted -"

"I do," he nodded quickly. "I will."

_I __want __a __baby__._

_My __baby__._

His fingers tightened around hers; for the first time, they noticed the intimacy of their hold on each other. Immediately, their hands separated and moved off the table, out of sight.

The moment shattered.

"We should probably -"

"I'll get the check."

.

.

.

The small waiting area was occupied; the young couple already seated looked up with small, diffident smiles when Booth and Brennan entered the office. Returning the greeting with a nod, Booth chose an empty chair while Brennan registered at the reception desk. When she returned to his side, he leaned forward, grabbed two magazines at random from the stack on the coffee table and passed one to her.

"These places are always so quiet, aren't they?" The female half of the other couple spoke up after a couple of minutes of silence had passed. "I'm Teresa." She nodded toward her companion. "My husband, Steve."

Booth and Brennan exchanged a short glance. "I'm Seeley," Booth finally answered. His head inclined slightly toward Brennan. "Temperance."

"Hi." Teresa's grin was self-conscious but friendly. "So, how long have you guys been trying?" Her tone was edged with polite, if faintly nervous, curiosity.

Booth coughed and cleared his throat. "Excuse me?"

"This is our fourth time. No luck yet, though." Teresa patted her husband's knee. "Next up, in vitro!"

Her tone was bright and chipper but when the open smile wavered, Steve quickly grabbed her hand and squeezed. "Fourth time's the charm, right?" He looked at Booth with a faintly embarrassed shrug. "Slow swimmers, you know how it is, right?"

Booth's hand went to smooth a tie he wasn't wearing but before he could respond, Brennan had already spoken.

"Oh, no. Booth has excellent sperm."

Her words fell into an embarrassed silence before the young man nodded and shrugged in a gesture meant to be casual. "Well, lucky you, right?"

An uncomfortable moment followed before Teresa leaned forward again. "So you're the problem?" she asked Brennan, her voice filled with sympathy. "What's wrong?"

Brennan's eyebrows rose imperiously. "Pardon me?"

"Mrs. Fairburn?" A nurse in light blue scrubs thankfully interrupted before the conversation could develop further.

"That's us!" There was a flurry of activity as the hopeful parents gathered their things together and stood up. "Good luck to you." Teresa bestowed a sincere smile on Booth and Brennan before she hurried off with her husband to follow the nurse.

For a moment, the only sound was that of the receptionist typing at her computer.

Finally, Booth looked at Brennan and gave a short bark of laughter. "People will talk about anything in waiting rooms, huh?"

She pursed her lips and nodded and for the next five minutes, they stared down at their separate magazines without once turning a page.

"Dr. Brennan?" A different nurse was there, this one in light purple scrubs.

"Yes." She stood up, took two steps in the direction of the nurse, then paused when the woman spoke again.

"Your friend can come back with you, if you'd like."

Wary blue eyes met panicked brown. "No." Booth was already shaking his head, even as he half-rose from the chair. "No. I'll . . ." He collapsed back to a sitting position and clutched the rolled up magazine like a shield. "I'll just . . . wait out here."

Brennan turned away before he could read her expression. Disappointment? Relief? Once she was gone, Booth struggled to remember exactly how she'd looked . . . His gaze swept over his surroundings as he desperately sought something to distract his thoughts from where they zoomed automatically – into the room with Brennan, to what was happening at that very moment.

_" . . . __very __simple __procedure__ . . . __semen__ . . . __hollow __syringe__ . . . __which __is __then__ . . ."_

The receptionist looked over curiously when he propelled himself forcefully out of the chair. He gave her a tight smile and walked to the window as if that had always been his intended destination.

The parking lot and scrawny trees sticking up from small squares of dirt squeezed into acres of pavement disappeared.

Fantasy and reality collided.

_" . . . __the __semen __that __you__ . . . __donated__ . . ."_

_Long__, __long__ legs . . . __impossibly __long __legs __wrapped __around __him__ . . ._

_Dingy__, __tawdry __room__ . . ._

" _. . . __hollow __syringe__ . . ."_

_. . . __naked __beneath __him__ . . ._

" _. . . __the __semen __that __you__ . . . __donated__ . . ."_

_Eyes __flashing __silver__ . . . __the __whisper __of __his __name__ . . ._

_Booth__ . . ._

"Sir? Excuse me?"

He jumped, startled, at the light touch of a hand on his arm. "Huh?"

The purple scrubs were back. "We're done now," the nurse explained, her smile uncertain as she noted his reaction to her appearance. "You can wait with Dr. Brennan if you'd like. We need her to lie prone for half an hour or so but there's no need for you to sit out here alone. Come with me," she encouraged, taking his assent for granted as she turned away. "I'll take you to her room."

He followed automatically, a marionette blindly dancing to the rhythm of strings controlled by someone else. He caught a glimpse of the number 4 and flushed hot just before they turned a corner into a hallway lined with doors labeled with letters of the alphabet. The nurse stopped at C and tapped quietly before she poked her head in.

"Dr. Brennan?" She pushed it open wide and waited for Booth to shuffle his way inside. "I brought you some company while you wait," she announced cheerfully. "Would anyone like some juice or a bottle of water?" When they both shook their heads no, she stepped across the threshold and pulled the door closed. "I'll be back in thirty minutes!"

Booth stood just inside the door, afraid to breathe, unsure of where to look or what to look at. Just feet away, Brennan lay on an examination table, knees bent, still wearing the blouse he'd seen that morning but covered from the waist down with a plain white waffle weave hospital blanket. Bare toes, the nails painted a soft seashell peach, peeked out from the edge of the cover. Dangling from a hinge attached to the end of the table, he could see one glittering silver stirrup.

"She made me come in." The explanation escaped in a rush, anxious as he was to assure her that being here wasn't his idea, that he wasn't . . . invading her privacy, that he wasn't trying to push her into . . .

_I __want __a __baby__._

"It's fine." Brennan's eyes were fixed on his. "It's fine." When he still didn't move, her head tilted toward the wall on the other side of the exam table. "You should probably sit down, though. I have to wait like this for thirty minutes."

"Right." He heard her but it took another minute for the desire to walk to register in his brain. When it did, his shoulders moved forward while his feet remained rooted in place. Finally, feet and body began to move in sync and he managed clumsy, ungainly steps across the room.

Two black armless chairs sat beneath a garish print of red and gold sunflowers. On the floor stood a pair of tall black leather boots while on one seat, inky blue denim jeans had been folded neatly. A scrap of white lace sticking out from beneath the jeans caught his attention. He looked away quickly and shifted the empty chair a few inches to the side.

Brennan watched him without speaking.

His eyes met hers, skittered away, and landed on the other metal stirrup hanging from the end of the table.

The safest place to look seemed to be directly into her eyes.

"So . . ." He smiled and attempted a pose of nonchalance. "Everything go okay?" He heard the words come out of his mouth and flinched internally. _Oh__, __God__._

"Yes."

Her upraised knees were at the corner of his vision; his eyes burned with the effort to avoid looking in that direction. "Good."

A minute ticked away.

He looked at the ceiling.

Frowning, she followed his gaze.

Chance locked their fleeting glances together again.

"So . . ." He swallowed roughly. "So, the . . . the stuff, it's . . . in there."

" . . . Yes."

"Good."

Silence fell once more. His eyes were drawn against his will when the blanket that covered her began to move as her knees tapped together nervously. She saw the direction of his gaze and immediately stilled.

"I have to lie prone for thirty minutes to minimize seepage." The unasked for explanation tumbled out. "Then they'll insert a cervical cap and -" She hesitated at the look on his face. "It's like a diaphragm except -"

To her surprise, Booth began to laugh.

"Why is that funny?"

"Well, if they're using a diaphragm then you'll be preg-" He bit off the comment, and then it was her turn to look confused and his to attempt an explanation. "That was what . . . when Rebecca got pregnant, she was using . . . well, we were using . . ."

"Oh." She nodded in understanding. "That was your method of birth control."

"Well, obviously not so much." The words, and the dry tone in which they were uttered, finally broke through the tension between them. When the laughter faded, so had much of the discomfort.

"You're really okay?" He had to ask again, this time so he could actually hear the answer.

"Yes, I am."

His gaze landed once more on the stirrup that was visible to him. "Those things . . ." He shuddered dramatically. "I've been in these rooms before, you know, with Rebecca," he explained. "Those things creep me out."

"They're usually cold," she agreed. "And the position is uncomfortable."

"Yea, I bet." He shifted in the hard chair and tried to think of something else to talk about.

He wasn't quick enough. "Did you accompany Rebecca to many of her prenatal appointments?"

"Oh. Well, yea, when I was around." He lifted one foot to the opposite knee and plucked at the hem of his jeans. "But I missed a lot, too."

She studied his reaction the way she would a research subject. "I'm sure that was difficult for you."

"Yea." He shrugged and then met her eyes. _Say it. _"You know, you want to be there for everything. You want to be the person she can count on."

She didn't look away. "Booth -"

A knock preceded Dr. Matheson's entry into the room again. "Hello again," she announced cheerfully, and shook hands with Booth when he stood up, before she turned to Brennan with a pat on one blanket-covered knee. "Let's take one more look, shall we? Then we'll insert the cervical cap and let you go home."

When her hands went to the bottom of the blanket, Booth slid behind the doctor and headed for the door. "I'll just wait in the hall, okay? Just . . . I'll just be . . . out there." He escaped before anyone could stop him.

Brennan's eyes caught his before the door closed behind him.

"_You __want __to __be __the __person __she __can __count __on__." _

He hadn't been talking about Rebecca.

They had both known it.

.

.

* * *

_It's like watching snails race, isn't it? :-D_

_Thanks for reading!  
_


	11. Fuses and Fireworks

_So it turns out that in order to get everything done that needs to get done in this story before the beginning of the new season, I'm going to have to add a few chapters and speed up my posting schedule. Ah, well. The best laid plans . . . etcetera, etcetera, etcetera._

_._

_._

* * *

.

.

They tiptoed into an agreement of sorts, a fragile compromise forged in the same way and out of the same habits as everything else they had somehow managed to accomplish over the course of their relationship. They talked without talking, swapping inconsequential banter that flowed in subtle waves over the dangerous current of the real conversation that bubbled beneath the surface.

He took her home.

She invited him in for lunch.

Neither mentioned his comments in the examination room.

They discussed an alibi being used in one of the new cases. She opened her laptop to rebut the claims.

An email from her realtor popped up.

She told him . . . casually . . . that she was looking for a house to purchase.

He was . . . casually . . . interested.

She opened the email and the link it contained.

She commented favorably on one house.

He thought the garage was small.

She liked the clean, modern lines of another.

He mentioned the dangers of a toddler and an open staircase.

He loved the large back yard visible in the photos of the next one.

She'd always wanted a tree-house.

So had he.

The conversation quickly moved back to the alibi.

His gut said the guy was sketchy.

Her facts supported that opinion.

He offered to drive through the neighborhood where the house with the big yard was located, just to check it out . . . if she thought that was a good idea.

She did.

She had a vague idea of attending a few open houses the next day.

He didn't have any plans. Second opinions could be useful.

She thought second opinions were important.

She offered to drive, as her vehicle was more fuel-efficient.

He preferred the SUV, because it was larger.

He noted offhand how unwieldy infant seats could be, especially in smaller cars.

She was considering a larger model.

He knew a lot about cars, if there was anything he could do to help.

She was grateful for his assistance.

His phone rang and she listened to one side of a conversation about bowling and beer and whose game would be impacted first and/or more.

He hung up and filled in more details about someone's birthday and plans for the evening.

He invited her to join them.

She refused with the excuse of work.

He got up to leave and then stood at her door longer than was necessary, dredging up questions for which he already had answers.

She gave long-winded explanations full of details he didn't need and only half understood.

He mentioned lunch before the open houses. He knew a barbeque place nearby and he was sure they could find some sticks and leaves for her.

She laughed, as he intended.

Finally, he ran out of excuses to linger.

She didn't know how to ask him to stay.

They parted temporarily, their mutual reluctance unacknowledged, with no further mention of what they'd done that morning, or what might be happening in her body at that moment.

Neither admitted what each hoped.

They stepped out carefully, balancing tentatively on a delicate tightrope that stretched between what they were and what they could be.

Progress was measured in inches, with cautious, guarded optimism.

.

.

It lasted three days.

.

.

.

"What the hell . . ." Booth huffed in frustration when he and Brennan pulled to a stop outside the apartment building behind a marked police car left at the curb with strobe lights flashing. By the time they made it to the sidewalk, two uniformed officers were coming out of the rundown tenement.

Booth flashed his badge. "Special Agent Seeley Booth, FBI. What's happening here?"

The two officers exchanged a frowning glance. "Domestic disturbance call," the older of the two grunted. "Feds interested in some kid playing his stereo too loud?"

"I'm here for a chat with the guy in 310, about a body we found last week," Booth informed them. "Where was your kid?"

The cop snorted and spit. "Our call was up on 5."

"Huh." Booth considered the facade of the building for a moment then looked again at the officers. "I've had this guy in for an interview once already. He's jumpy and your sirens probably spooked him. Got a minute to give me some backup, just in case?"

The officers shrugged their agreement and followed Booth and Brennan inside.

When they left the stairwell, Booth unholstered his weapon, turned and lasered a glare at Brennan. "Stay out until I clear you to come in, got it?"

"Of course."

The door to 310 stood ajar. Standing off to one side, Booth stuck out a foot and nudged it open further.

"Reggie? You in there? It's Agent Booth again. I need to ask you a couple more questions."

The clatter of something heavy falling and breaking was the only response.

The uniformed officers took out their guns.

"I'm coming in, Reggie," Booth announced. "I just want to talk to you, okay? Don't do anything stupid." He looked over his shoulder at the other cops then used his foot again to shove the door wide open.

The shabby living room was empty, as was the small narrow kitchen visible directly across from the doorway. The sour smell of spilled beer mixed with the acrid odor of cigarettes, enhanced by the thin stream of grey smoke coming from an ashtray filled with crumpled white butts.

"Come on out, Reg," Booth called again, stepping further into the room with his gun extended. "Your Marlboro is still smoking, I know you're here." He jerked his head toward a door built into the wall on the left; once opened by the older cop, it revealed an empty closet.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Brennan standing in the entrance to the apartment and fumed. "I told you to wait outside until -"

It happened in an instant. Reggie rushed out from a back room . . . tall, thin, wearing a dirty, torn t-shirt and ragged jeans. Matted clumps of filthy hair stuck up randomly over his head, adding to the wild, unbalanced air that surrounded him. A small pistol was clutched in the white knuckles of the hand that hung limp at his side.

He never stopped in his mad rush toward the door and freedom.

And toward Brennan.

Before anyone else could react, she bent at the waist, lashed out with a sharp jab of her booted foot and sent Reggie flying backward with one hard blow to his midsection. The gun slid out of his hand as he hit the floor, his head bounced with a dull thud against the cheap carpet. He groaned once, tried to rise and collapsed again.

It was all over in less than thirty seconds.

An ice-cold flood of fury coloured by fear raged through Booth. Not trusting himself to look at Brennan, he hauled Reggie to his feet more roughly than necessary, and pinned the thin, pockmarked arms back with a jerk before he cuffed the still woozy crook and thrust him toward the uniformed cops.

"Get him out of here." His lips barely moved as he spoke. He waited until they had escorted the suspect into the hallway then slammed the door shut.

He and Brennan were alone in the small, dingy room. The heavy thud of a loud bass rhythm thumped through the ceiling from the apartment above.

His hands balled into fists as he struggled to gather the calming breaths he hoped would contain his anger. It might have worked, if he hadn't turned to see Brennan's smile.

"Obviously you were right about him. He -"

"What . . . The . . . Hell . . . were you thinking." His teeth ground together as he spoke. His temper boiled sharp and hot, spiking until his stomach churned and it took a physical effort to restrain the impulse to tear down the walls with his bare hands. "I told you to stay out until I cleared the room!"

"I wasn't in -"

"HE HAD A GUN!"

She blinked in surprise at the roar of his voice, before anger appeared on her face, too. "It wasn't aimed at me. He -"

The coil inside his gut, the one he'd felt turning and twisting and tightening, snapped.

She never saw him move.

In the blink of an eye, her back was against the wall and she was blanketed by his big, wide body. Without touching her, he covered her completely. Bare millimeters separated them; he was so close she felt the whisper of his breath on her face and absorbed the heat surging from him in waves. He was so close that if she'd looked, she might have counted the threads that held the button on his collar closed.

She didn't. She couldn't look away from the turbulent, roiling storm that turned his already dark eyes black.

In her peripheral vision, she saw that his gun was in his hand, inches from his ear, pointed harmlessly at the ceiling.

"That's how quick everything can change."

He wasn't yelling now. His voice was a harsh whisper that barely held enough volume to escape the knot that closed off his throat.

He was so close, the sound rippled over her skin.

She swallowed.

"I'm . . . I'm sure he isn't as fast as you -"

Flames hissed in the onyx, bottomless pit of his irises before he backed away two paces, and stuffed his gun back into the holster. "Don't . . ." Jaw clenched he turned away then spun back with a finger jabbed in her direction. "Don't do that," he bit out.

"Don't do -"

He was so angry, he couldn't remain still. He paced and pivoted, dancing on his feet like a boxer in a ring as he fought to manage the seething tide of rage that threatened to consume him, fed by a terror that renewed itself every time the memory of the gunman running toward her rose again.

"Don't pretend you don't know what this is about!" He stepped back into her space, looming over her where she remained unmoving against the wall. "You forget where we were Saturday?" he demanded, one arm shooting out as he pointed off to the side of the room. "You forget what we did?"

"Of course not!" She immediately took umbrage. "I -"

"You could be pregnant!" he snarled. "Right now!" The pointing finger stabbed toward the floor. "Right now!"

She attempted to shrug off his concern. "The probability is relatively low after just one -"

"Excellent sperm, remember!" He was yelling again as he patted his own chest. "I could populate my own goddamn country!" His arms swung out wide before he turned his back on her again, walked away, and tried to find a deep breath.

It didn't work.

"I'm sure -"

Two giant steps and they were toe to toe again, his face almost touching hers. "Every time I take you out in the field, I put you in danger." The words came on a low, lethal hiss as he leaned in even closer. "And I live with that," he ground out, "because I know I would lay down my life for you before I'd let you get hurt."

His shoulders heaved with the force of his breathing as he stared at her, unblinking.

She could only stare back, and struggle for air herself in a room that suddenly felt as empty as a vacuum.

"But it's not just you anymore." His voice dropped lower as his eyes bored into hers. "You could be pregnant. Right now. With my baby."

"I -"

"NO!" One long index finger cut off whatever she might have said. He backed away again and paced in front of her. "If you wanted a kid, you could have just done it," he snapped. "You could have just gone to that clinic and picked some guy out of a book and just had a kid. But you didn't do that." He returned to stand inches away from her. "You told me. You picked me. You chose me." He slapped his chest again with the flat of his palm. "And that makes this baby mine."

She gasped almost soundlessly when he laid his hand low across her abdomen. Fingers splayed, his pinkie and thumb brushed against the bones of her hips, burning an outline of his touch into her skin through the denim jeans she wore. It was a raw, primitive branding of ownership, male to female, one she recognized and reacted to on an instinctive, elemental level. She reached up to cover his hand with hers.

He stepped back immediately. "My baby. And there will be room for me, you can count on that. I'll make room."

"What? I never said - You don't have to worry about - "

"NO." The fury that had begun to abate surged hot once more. "No." The pointing finger was back as he crowded her into the wall again. "No. That's one thing you can't control, Bones. You can tell me you don't want my money. You can go see your lawyers and you can draw up your papers and you can tell me when and how often and where I can see _my child_." One fist beat against his chest in emphasis. "But you don't get to decide how I feel. You don't get to decide whether or not I love this kid." He leaned in until their noses almost touched. "I already do."

She blinked in surprise as he straightened, then stepped back. "But . . ." She struggled to understand the truth of what he'd just revealed. "How can you love something that . . . It's just . . . potential. It doesn't exist yet . . ."

His eyes shuttered as he looked at her. "You'd be surprised," he whispered. He spun away. Turned back. "And as of right now, this -" His hand waved over the dingy room. "- is never happening again."

She was instantly wary. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," his expression turned grim, "that you will promise me right now - right now!" he emphasized darkly. "Right now! You will promise me that you will stay out of the way, that you will not engage the suspects, that you WILL NOT PUT YOURSELF IN DANGER!" His voice rose to a yell when her face began to show traces of mutiny. "Or I will leave you in the lab." The threat was a promise.

"You can't do that!" Predictably, she was outraged. "We're partners! You can't -"

"No!" Booth stepped up in her face again. "No. We _were_ partners," he corrected her. "You took . . . took . . . partners . . ." His hands, held barely a foot apart, rose in front of her face, "and you . . . you . . . you . . . " He made an explosive sound in his throat and spread his hands wide, as if a bomb had exploded between them. "You could be pregnant," his harsh rasp reminded her yet again. "And I will have your word - your word, Bones! - or so help me God," he vowed, "you will never leave the lab again."

The staring contest went on for two full minutes.

Finally Booth, his jaw hard, nodded. "Fine." He pivoted on one foot.

Brennan quickly stepped away from the wall, arms clasped across her chest. "Fine!"

He turned back to her at once. "Fine."

Chin raised belligerently, she nodded. "Fine."

They stared at each other again until Booth's eyes slid away. He shrugged; one hand smoothed his tie. "Just . . . just so we're clear," he mumbled hesitantly, "what did your 'fine' mean?"

One booted foot tapped on the dirty carpet in annoyance as she studied him for another minute. "Gun first," she muttered. "And . . . I'll stay back, as much as possible. And wait for your signal."

He considered the grudging concessions and then nodded. "Fine."

"Fine." She fidgeted uncertainly for a moment. "Booth."

He paused, one hand on the doorknob.

"I never said there wouldn't be room for you." Her fingers laced together at her waist as she spoke. "In fact, I . . . I thought . . ." She shrugged self-consciously. "I thought I'd made it clear over the last few days that my . . . original position had . . . changed. That I would welcome your . . . involvement."

He let his hand fall away from the door and approached her again. The last vestiges of the furious rush of anger disappeared. "I'm sorry," he apologized. "You didn't. I was . . . listening to the wrong people."

She waited, and when he didn't continue, plucked at a thread on the cuff of her sleeve. "Perhaps we would be better served if we listened to each other, instead."

Seconds ticked away. When she finally looked up, she couldn't read his expression. "That's a good start."

The music from the apartment above was joined by the sound of a baby crying.

She pursed her lips. "Are you finished yelling?"

He shook his head and opened the door. "Probably not." He stepped aside to let her exit first. "You know, you just took ten years off my life," he grumbled as he followed her out into the hallway.

"Really? I wasn't frightened at all."

"See, this is why I said I wasn't done yelling."

.

.

* * *

_(boom)_


	12. In The Beginning

If.

Two letters.

One word.

One . . . small . . . tiny . . . miniscule word.

It hung over their heads and haunted their sleep.

It lurked behind every smile and every carefully casual conversation.

If.

If she were pregnant . . .

The weight of the rest of their lives balanced on one inadequate little word.

If.

A letter arrived inviting him to teach a three-week marksmanship course to new recruits at Quantico. He was pleased and honored and immediately began drafting a letter accepting the opportunity.

And then . . .

The course was in February. It was May. He counted out the months on his fingers.

If.

He folded the letter, slipped it back into the envelope and stuck it beneath the phone on his desk.

And waited.

She came over when he next had Parker and a friendly game of Battleship turned into a vicious competition. The little boy egged them on, moving from one side of the table to the other to peek at both screens, whispering hints and lies to each of them and laughing uproariously when he got caught. Their eyes met over the blue plastic boards and they shared the same thought.

They were like a family.

They could be a family.

If.

.

.

.

On Wednesday morning, exactly ten days after the morning spent at the clinic, Booth was in his office, standing at a file cabinet next to his desk. Movement in his peripheral vision snagged his attention; he nudged the drawer closed and turned just as Brennan rushed into the room.

"Hey, I didn't know you were -"

She slammed into him, pressed against him, arms thrown around his neck.

His hands came up automatically to return the embrace. "What -"

"I'm pregnant." The whispered words brushed against the shell of his ear with the touch of her lips.

The air froze in his lungs. His heartbeat stuttered to a stop before pulsing hard with renewed force. Over her shoulder, his jaw dropped, his eyes widened in shock.

She pulled away to look at him, her face open and filled with joy, eyes shimmering and moist, nodded then hugged him tightly again.

"I'm pregnant, Booth." The second whisper held a hint of tears.

His mouth opened and closed several times before words actually formed. "You said . . . I thought . . . fifteen percent . . ."

"I know. The probability was relatively low." Her head bobbed against his before she drew back once more. "You really do have excellent sperm." Her arms were looped around his neck; she was so close he saw flecks of green and a dark circle of grey around her irises. She sparkled from within, so full of happiness her skin almost glowed.

His hands rested unmoving on her back. "You . . . you're sure . . ." Lost in her own response, she noticed nothing amiss about his.

"Yes." They were still whispering, their voices reaching only each other. "I just left my doctor's office. She took a blood sample . . ." She pulled him close again. "I'm going to have a baby."

The feel of her lips on his ear skittered along nerve endings that suddenly felt exposed and raw.

"Yea . . ."

She stepped back, finally, one full step out of his embrace. One hand lifted to rest above her heart as she took a breath. He'd never seen her smile with that much abandon.

"I'm going home for the rest of the day," she told him. "I don't want to tell anyone else right now, okay? It's just between us . . . it's so early and so much can happen . . ." A hand waved away the thought. "I don't trust my ability to dissemble at the moment - Angela, I'm sure, would take one look at me and know something was happening." She laughed with abandon, and threw her arms around him again. "I'm pregnant, Booth," she whispered one more time. "I'm going to have a baby."

In his shock and surprise, he hadn't said more than fifteen words, maybe twenty. He hadn't said congratulations. He hadn't told her he was happy. For her. For them.

She didn't notice. At least not then. She existed in a bubble of her own elation, one that stretched to include him because she couldn't imagine he would not share in her delight.

She cupped his stubbled jaw with one hand and smiled beatifically on him, then rested her cheek against his. Her eyes closed as she breathed deeply.

His eyes closed, too, as he struggled to draw air into his still frozen lungs.

The hand on his cheek slid down his chest, to his arm, to grasp his fingers. She squeezed them hard, and held on as she took two steps toward the door.

His arm and hers stretched out across the space that separated them.

She pressed her fingers around his once more, let them fall away with a smile, and left.

He stared at the empty doorway for several long minutes then stumbled to his desk. The chair protested with a loud squeak when he collapsed bonelessly into it.

_I'm pregnant._

If became now.

.

.

.

The bartender had poured his favorite top-shelf bourbon. Booth recognized the smell and the look of Woodford Reserve, even though when he drank, it slid down his throat with all the flavor of sawdust. He grunted to himself. _Well, that was a waste of twenty bucks._

_I'm pregnant._

He dragged both hands down his face and sat, elbows bent on the bar, fingertips spread across his forehead. _Now what?_

He was happy about the baby. He was.

He was.

There was no denying that small nugget of fierce pride and joy that burned in his gut.

She was pregnant. With his baby.

_Where do we go from here?_

Oh, sure, they were fine . . . for now. His blow-up at Reggie's apartment had them tiptoeing around each other, circling closer, inch by inch. He'd caught her watching him . . . had let her catch him watching her. For them, that was progress.

They were fine.

He and Rebecca had been fine, too. Until they weren't.

_Bones isn't Rebecca._

That thought should have comforted him.

It didn't.

_I'm pregnant._

They were having a baby.

"Well, well, well. Just the man I wanted to see."

The tart voice pulled him out of his solitary introspection; he didn't bother trying to keep the groan that escaped him quiet.

"Obviously, you're thrilled to see me, too," Angela said dryly. She tossed a thin purse on the bar and, uninvited, slid onto the stool beside him. "You haven't been dropping in at the lab recently." The bartender approached and laid a napkin in front of her. "Lemon Drop Martini. So why is that?" She turned back to Booth without hesitation.

"Phones, email, they work pretty good." Shoulders hunched, he stared straight ahead.

"Uh huh. Brennan took the day off today." She nodded thanks when her drink was delivered. "But I bet you probably knew that."

Booth swirled the contents of his drink in a circle. "I heard."

"She's been doing that a lot lately. For Brennan, I mean. There was a time she practically lived in the lab." Angela sipped from the pale yellow drink. "She said she was working from home but," she smiled, "we all say that. Personally, I usually get a pedicure and a massage."

He took a sip from his drink without speaking.

"So, about this baby thing . . ."

That got a response. He dropped his head into one hand and rubbed his closed eyes. "Angela -"

"You do see that it's a crazy idea, right?" She dug in, determined to have her say now that she had the chance. "I mean, if you two want to have a baby together, there's a better way to do it, know what I mean?"

"Angela -"

"You love her." The bald statement drew his eyes to hers. "Come on, everyone knows that," she informed him. "Everyone except Brennan, and that's only because she refuses to see it."

Booth picked up his glass.

"She's in love with you, too." At the soft spoken words, he closed his eyes and rested the drink against his forehead. "She may not recognize what it is she feels, she may even be afraid of it, but she's in love with you, Booth. Trust me."

The words pounded in his head, feeding his hopes even as they filled him with doubt.

"And this baby thing," Angela continued doggedly. "I don't know where that idea came from but it's just wrong and one of you has to be smart enough to say so." She slapped him on the arm. "That means you, G-man. Brennan may be a genius but in this case, she's not being very smart."

"She's pregnant." He just wanted her to stop talking. The words slipped out before he could stop them.

Angela's mouth fell open. "What?"

He shot a quick glance her way, immediately regretting the confession. "Don't say anything. She doesn't want anyone to know yet."

Her expression betrayed her amazement. "She's . . ." Her face cleared, her eyes sparkled with merriment. "That's why she's been running from me for the past couple of weeks, isn't it? You guys finally -" His wary look stopped the playful tease. "No." Now she looked as if she wanted to cry. "No. You didn't."

Booth drained the last of the amber liquid in his glass.

"What happens now?" Angela's searching gaze scanned his profile. "Booth!" She grabbed his forearm; his eyes met hers unwillingly. "What happens now? How do you go from two people who are wildly attracted to each other to two people who are having a baby, who've barely kissed?"

Her questions echoed his own fears. He had no answers for either of them.

"You guys could be great." He looked over when she removed the napkin from beneath her glass and dabbed beneath her eyes. "Watching the two of you," one shoulder lifted in a delicate shrug, "there's something special there. But a baby . . . like this . . ." Angela shook her head wordlessly. "What happens now?"

The concerned inquiry hit too close to home.

"I guess we'll have to figure that out for ourselves." Booth stood up, took out his wallet and tossed money to the bar. "Don't say anything about the baby," he reminded Angela, his eyes stern. "Let her tell you when she's ready."

"Yea, sure." Before he walked away, she stopped him with a touch on his arm. "Congratulations. I mean that." Her smile was sincere, if a bit sad. "I just . . . wanted it to be a different way."

He rested his hand on hers. "Thanks."

The question reverberated in his head as he walked out of the bar.

_What happens now?_

_._

_._

* * *

_What happens now? Inquiring minds want to know . . . _

_:-)_

_Thanks for reading!_


	13. Separate Beds

_There's more than one way to start communicating . . ._

_._

_._

* * *

_._

.

Hello?

.

.

hey

Did I wake you?

no, wasnt sleeping

I'm unable to sleep as well.

figured that out :)

Yes.

.

.

I've been thinking and I realized that in my excitement this morning, I neglected to consider your response.

.

.

You were very quiet.

.

.

u surprised me

wasnt expecting that news

I find that interesting. You seemed quite certain the procedure would be successful when you were shouting at me last week.

well u scared the hell out of me. might have said some things

.

.

.

Are you still surprised?

no. its good

im happy abt it

i am. i mean that

u will b a great mom :)

Thank you.

.

.

.

bones?

Yes?

.

.

this changes everything. u know that right?

My pregnancy?

yea

Yes, I know. I've already agreed to follow your instructions when we're questioning suspects.

thats not what i meant but good. u should b more careful

.

.

but i wasnt talking abt that

.

.

.

i meant us

.

.

this changes us. u and me

what we are

.

.

.

.

.

I don't understand.

.

.

a baby connects us

its abt more than what we do now. our work

its abt us. u and me

a baby makes everything different

.

.

we have to figure out what that means

.

.

.

what that is, i mean. we have to figure that out

.

.

.

Because I'm pregnant?

b/c ur pregnant and its mine

.

.

.

How do we do that?

.

.

.

i dont know

.

.

.

I don't either.

.

.

.

weve got time

ur pretty smart and i catch on quick :)

You are much more intelligent than you sometimes pretend to be.

shhh. dont give away my secrets :)

.

.

speaking of secrets, i kinda told angela

About the pregnancy? Why?

it just slipped out. stopped 4 a drink after work, she was at the bar, she started talking and it just happened

she promised not to tell anyone else

fwiw

Angela's ability to maintain secrecy is somewhat suspect.

i know. im sorry

shes supposed to act surprised when u tell her

I find that highly unlikely.

yea. figured id better tell u. im sorry

Have you told anyone else?

no

Not Dr. Sweets?

def not

lets not tell him ever

Obviously we will have to tell him eventually.

no. never tell him. never confirm it. it will drive him nuts

That is an amusing thought.

see?

.

.

.

u should get some sleep

Yes. I think I am finally tired. I've yawned several times.

good

.

.

.

got plans for lunch tomorrow?

Not really.

gonna drop by sids around noon, take him p's school pic

I could meet you there.

sounds good

.

.

.

nite

Good night.

.

.

.

.

Booth?

yea?

I'm very happy that the procedure was successful.

:) so am I

.

.

.

Good night.

Nite

.

.

.

Did you say noon tomorrow? At Sid's?

Yea noon

Alright. I'll be there. Good night.

nite

.

.

* * *

_Have you ever been to a tapas restaurant? Each dish is just enough for a few bites so you make a meal by ordering several different items._

_These next few chapters are going to be like tapas, small but flavorful and when you put them together, satisfying. There's a point to all of this. You'll just have to trust me. :-)_

_Thanks for reading!_


	14. Separate Voices

_Tapas, remember?_

_._

_._

* * *

_._

She found Brennan where she expected - in bone storage. "The reconstruction is finished." Angela extended the printout of the computerized image.

"Thank you." The anthropologist briefly scanned the paper then handed it back. "Please put it on my desk. I'll give it a more thorough study after lunch." She turned back to the bones displayed anatomically on the table beside her.

"Sure." Angela watched as Brennan picked up and examined a tibia. The sheet in her hand tapped restlessly against her upper thigh. "Hey!" she announced suddenly, as if the thought had just occurred to her. "You know what we haven't done recently?" When her friend's vaguely questioning gaze met her own, she smiled brightly. "Girl's night. How about it? You and me? Tonight? Crowded bar. Loud music. Lots of wine. Hot guys. Lots of wine . . ." The grin widened. "What do you say?"

Brennan resumed her study of the bone. "Thank you, but no. I have several projects to finish so I'll be working late."

"Oh." Having expected resistance, Angela continued doggedly. "Well, this weekend then. That's probably a better idea anyway. We can really cut loose and if we get hammered, we'll just sleep it off the next day."

"I'm going to visit Russ and Amy this weekend." Her voice was distracted as Brennan replaced the tibia on the left leg and lifted the one from the right. "Besides, wouldn't looking at 'hot guys' be detrimental to your vow of celibacy?"

"There's nothing wrong with a bit of window shopping," Angela demurred. "How about -"

"Angela." Brennan replaced the right tibia and turned to face her friend. "I know that Booth told you about my pregnancy. If the invitation to join you in the consummation of alcohol is meant to coerce a confession from me so that you don't have to pretend ignorance of my condition, I give you permission to stop. I'm aware that you know."

Angela's wide-eyed expression of surprise and shock appeared just a few seconds too late. "What?" One hand slapped against her chest melodramatically. "You're what?"

When Brennan simply looked at her with knowing amusement, Angela quickly dropped the charade and pulled her into a hug.

"Oh my God, honey," she breathed into Brennan's neck. "You're going to have a baby!"

"Yes, I know." Brennan pulled away without stepping out of the embrace, a wide smile brightening her face.

"Are you happy?" Angela was a bit teary. "This is definitely what you want? Are you sure?"

'Yes." Brennan nodded and her smile, if possible, broadened. "When the positive result came back, I was . . ." The words stopped as tears filled her own eyes. "I'm going to have a baby."

They came together for another long hug; when it ended, they both brushed at wet cheeks before Angela set aside the now crumpled sheet of paper in her hand.

"What about Booth?" she asked carefully. "Is he happy about it?"

"Yes," Brennan nodded. "We conversed last night, though text messages. He said he was very happy."

Angela looked at her with raised brows. "In a text."

"Yes." She paused for a moment. As she spoke again, Angela was surprised to see her friend's hands twist together almost nervously. "When I decided to have a child," Brennan began slowly, "I saw myself building a life for us. The two of us," she added. "The child and me." Her gaze shifted away and back, without meeting Angela's eyes. "Over the last few weeks, that vision has . . . evolved and now I see -"

"Booth?" Angela guessed when Brennan's hesitation continued.

The dark ponytail bobbed. "He's a very good father."

"I know." Angela smiled gently.

"The relationship I have with him is one of the most important in my life." Chin lifted bravely, Brennan spoke as if she were making a confession.

Angela wanted to give her another hug. "You know why that is, don't you, sweetie?"

"Yes." Brennan had an answer ready. "We spend a great deal of time together, we see each other almost every day and despite our differences, we are actually very compatible and work extremely well together." Her explanation came swiftly, like points on a mental checklist she carried in her head.

Angela swallowed laughter. "Well, it's good to see you still have those keen observation skills," she murmured dryly.

"Booth said," Brennan spoke carefully, weighing every word, "that we had to change. That my pregnancy . . . a baby, that it would change us. Who we are, the two of us."

"Did he tell you that in a text, too?" Angela asked sarcastically, and when Brennan nodded, she only just managed not to roll her eyes. "Well, he's right anyway." She reached for Brennan's hand when her apprehension showed again. "You're connected now, you and Booth. You created a life, a person. You're linked together now, forever. How can that not change you?"

Brennan's free hand fluttered against the front of her lab coat, above her abdomen.

"You're used to a life of structure," Angela continued quietly, "of boundaries and limits, where everything has an explanation or a purpose. Outside the lab, though," she smiled, "life is messy - and fun and random and scary and adventurous and . . . and beautiful." She grabbed Brennan's other hand and squeezed both sets of fingers. "Having a baby is going to blow your world wide open. You could do a lot worse than having someone like Booth there with you, while you figure it all out."

The two friends looked at each other for one long minute, before Angela pouted and gently swung the hands she held to and fro.

"I can't believe you're going to have a baby," she cooed.

The sparkle in her eyes matched the happiness on her face when Brennan smiled back. "I'm going to have a baby."

.

.

* * *

_I know it's a different story but this is my first post after yesterday so for all of you who left well-wishes for my daughter after the "Christine wedding" chapter on Friday, thank you! She was beautiful, the day was beautiful, everything was beautiful! :-D (And if you don't read _Roots and Wings_ you have no idea what I'm talking about, so never mind. *lol* _

_I've got a week to tell the rest of this story. Yikes.  
_

_Thanks for reading!_


	15. Shared Hopes

"Good Lord, boy!" The grizzled old man yelped loudly as he tugged at Parker's ear. "When's the last time you washed behind those ears? You trying to grow mushrooms back there?"

"Uh uh," Parker brushed at the aged hand with a laugh. "My ears are clean!" Watching the hijinks from a bench beside his grandfather, Booth looked on with an indulgent smile.

"I don't think I've ever seen a pair of ears this dirty." The lined face frowned before it assumed an expression of dramatic surprise. "Well, I'll be. Look what I found back there!" He withdrew his fingers from the tousled curls and waved a shiny silver dollar in front of the excited young boy. "How'd that get there, I wonder?"

"Wow! Dad!" Parker took the coin when it was offered and showed it off. "Pops! Look what he found!"

"Ain't that something," Hank said gruffly after dutifully admiring the treasure. "Since Roy's so good at finding treasure, why don't you tell him to take another look. Maybe he can find that twenty bucks he owes me."

"Why don't you tell your grandpa he can kiss my -"

"Hey!" Booth silenced the insult with a sharp look at both old men. They glared at each other irritably before Roy put a hand on Parker's shoulder.

"Come on, kid. Let's go find us a deck of cards. I bet I can guess ever' one you pick up!" The two new friends wandered away to join four other men sitting at a nearby picnic table placed restfully beneath the shade of an old maple tree.

Booth and Hank watched their progress. "I shoulda known better than to play dominoes with a Marine," Hank grumbled. "They never pay up when they lose."

"I thought you didn't play for money." Booth raised one eyebrow at his grandfather.

"Considering I still haven't collected anything, I guess I wasn't." Pops' knowing eye landed on the man beside him. "Now that the boy is busy," he said, arms crossed above the round belly, "you gonna tell me what's wrong? You've been twitching like a bug on a hot plate since you got here."

Taken aback by the sudden interrogation, Booth shifted restlessly on the bench before he casually stretched his arm along the back and offered a tight, obviously false smile. "Nothing's wrong. Everything's . . . good."

Hank harrumphed. "If you don't want to talk about whatever it is, son, just say so."

The arm along the back of the bench dropped abruptly; Booth hunched forward, elbows on his knees. "My partner is . . . she's pregnant," he admitted finally. He kept his eyes on his hands, and the nervous interplay of his fingers.

"The bone lady?" Hank frowned. "So . . . what? You're worried about breaking in a new partner?"

"No." Booth shook his head. "No, we're not . . . she's still . . ." He shot a quick, apprehensive glance at his grandfather. "It's mine. The . . . the baby, I mean. It's . . . well," he stammered, "it's mine. It's my baby."

Hank stared in silence as gears clicked behind the faded blue eyes. "I thought you said she was off limits."

"She is." Booth shrugged self-consciously. "I mean, she was . . . she is. . . she . . ."

Grey eyebrows rose. "Maybe 'off limits' means something different these days."

"No, no it doesn't." The smile Booth attempted this time looked more like a grimace. "We haven't . . . well, we didn't . . ." He managed a brittle laugh under the weight of his grandfather's focus. "She wanted a baby, see, and . . . and so, we went to this clinic and . . . I . . . donated my . . . well, there was this little room, and . . ."

One veiny hand waved in the air and cut him off. "Yea, I get the picture. We have cable TV here." He half turned toward the younger man. "Why in the world would you agree to something like that?"

Booth couldn't meet his grandfather's eyes. "Well, she wanted a baby."

"And it had to be yours?" Hank asked pointedly.

The sleeves of the thin white t-shirt stretched across heavy biceps when Booth's arms crossed defensively over his chest. "It's complicated."

The old man snorted. "Son, having a baby is about the least complicated thing there is. All it takes is a man and a woman and a little bit of luck. What you're talking about, though, that sounds complicated."

Their gazes met.

Hank's hands fell to his lap as his chin lifted. "Are you in love with this woman?"

Booth hesitated. Finally, he drew a deep breath. "Yea."

"Does she love you?"

Booth looked back at his hands; his fingers were knotted together so tightly, the knuckles shone white. "I don't . . . I would know, right?" The glance he cast at his grandfather was one of confusion and fear. "If she . . . if she did, if she loved me, I would know. Wouldn't I?"

"Does she know you love her?" Hank watched his grandson carefully.

Reluctantly, Booth shook his head. "No."

"But you would know if she loved you."

Booth heard the skeptical tone in the other man's voice. "Bones is . . . different," he mumbled. "She's hard to read sometimes."

The sigh Hank released came from deep within. "She's not a suspect, Seeley," he said gently. "You don't have to read her. You can talk to her. You could ask her how she feels."

"What if she doesn't?"

Not for the first time, Hank Booth silently cursed the son he still loved for the damage he'd inflicted on two motherless boys. Jared had responded by living on the edge of responsibility, taking for granted that someone else would be there to pick up the pieces when he slipped. This one, though . . . the old heart ached for the little boy he saw lurking behind the uncertainty of the question. The weight of the world rested on those broad shoulders, a burden made heavier by his desire to fix what he found broken and his search for the home and family he'd been denied.

Hank reached out and clasped the back of his grandson's neck in a gruff, comforting caress. It was the only answer he had.

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* * *

_In my world, the mother of Seeley and Jared Booth is dead. If that offends the Hart Hanson apologists who think he can do no wrong, so be it. There is nothing acceptable about a mother who would abandon her children to an abusive home while running away to save herself. Nothing. And that kind of snake does not live in my Garden of Eden.  
_

_Thanks for reading._


	16. Shared Choices

His first knock on the door went unanswered.

Unconcerned, he rapped his knuckles against the heavy wood once more and pulled out his phone to scroll through email while he waited for her to respond.

It was a few minutes before he realized the second knock had also been ignored.

Unalarmed but now mildly concerned, he rang the doorbell.

"Bones?" It was early, barely 6:00 a.m. but as he'd spoken to her on the phone just 30 minutes before, he knew she was awake. His fist hit the door as he called out again in a louder voice, heedless of any neighbors he might disturb. "Bones!"

He heard the sound of locks being opened from inside and relaxed as the knob turned.

"What took you so -"

_Ahhh._

Her pale, wan appearance answered his unfinished question even before she slapped her palm against her mouth and ran toward the back of the apartment. He stopped only to make sure the door was closed and locked before he followed at her heels.

On her knees in front of the toilet, her shoulders jerked as she heaved fruitlessly over the bowl. Elbow bent on the rim, her head dropped wearily into one hand.

"I'm sorry, I . . ." The words broke off as she gagged again.

He disappeared briefly. A door opened and closed in the hallway and then he was back, carrying a thick, pale blue washcloth that he immediately stuck beneath the tap and soaked with cold water.

"Every time I stand up, the nausea returns." Her voice was faint, her eyes closed. "I've been trying to get dressed since you phoned." She wore loose drawstring pajama pants and a short-sleeved green t-shirt. "I'm sorry," she apologized again.

"It's okay." His tone was as quiet as hers. "Here." She moaned faintly when he pressed the cool, moist cloth against her forehead. "Hold this. I'll be right back."

He was gone before she even thought about opening her eyes.

It took longer this time, but when he returned a few minutes later, she still hadn't moved. The sound of a lid spinning open on a jar had her blinking up in the direction of the noise.

He stood just inside the doorway, an open container of peanut butter in one hand and a spoon in the other. As she watched, frowning in confusion, he scooped out a small helping and offered it to her.

"Peanut butter?" Her voice was husky and raw.

"Worked for Rebecca." He crouched at her side and pushed the spoon toward her again. "Give it a try."

Obviously unconvinced, she took it nonetheless and nibbled gingerly.

When nothing happened, she ate the rest of the small serving.

"Staying down?" His eyes on her were gentle.

"Mmm." She dropped from her knees to a seating position but didn't leave her place beside the white porcelain. "I think so."

"One more, then." He filled the spoon again and held it out. Her fingers brushed his; he smiled tenderly. "I guess my kids like peanut butter." The warm, rich smell filled the small room.

When she returned the empty spoon, he closed up the jar and placed both items on the counter before, heedless of the creases he might be putting in the grey suit he wore, took a seat on the floor and shifted until his back hit the wall opposite the sink.

Then he reached for her.

Unresisting, she allowed him to pull her into his embrace and settle her comfortably in the open vee of his legs. Her arms slipped around his waist as she curled into his chest.

"They're disturbing my remains." The familiar complaint came on a yawn.

Her head rested just beneath his jaw; when he smiled, he felt the brush of her hair against his neck. "Don't worry. I think they know better by now."

One hand rested on her upraised knees, the other cupped her shoulder. His fingers rubbed small, idle circles into the thin cotton of her t-shirt.

"But -"

"Shhh. He's dead. He can wait a few minutes until we're sure you're okay."

He heard the indrawn breath and guessed what was coming.

"Generic 'he.' No, I don't know that the victim is male."

"Mmm." Another yawn, and her cheek rubbed against the fine cotton of his shirt. "Booth?"

"Hmm?" He felt her fingers move against the small of his back as she shifted deeper into his warmth.

"Thank you. I'm glad you're here."

His arms tightened as he pulled her even closer.

"Where else would I be?"

From somewhere else in the quiet apartment, the chimes of a clock rang out the half-hour mark.

Her scent enveloped him . . . the light, floral smell of the dark hair beneath his chin combined with the sultry note of her skin and over both, the faint, earthy touch of peanut butter.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Bones, we need to talk." The words were soft and barely audible. "Not now, but . . . maybe tonight? We could grab dinner somewhere and -"

His head tilted as he looked down at her profile.

In the circle of his arms, burrowed into the hard strength of his chest, her cheek over the steady, comforting beat of his heart, Brennan was asleep.

Love for her, and for the child she carried, swept over him in a wave of heat that raised goosebumps on his skin and brought tears to his eyes.

He pressed a kiss into her hair, and rested his jaw above it.

He could wait.

They had plenty of time.

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* * *

_Peanut butter worked for me when I was pregnant. Then again, I craved bagels with cream cheese and spam so, there's that.  
_

_Thanks for reading!_


	17. Second Chances

_WARNING: Triggers for miscarriage and the loss of a child._

_Forgive me._

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A phone call in the middle of the night was a common occurrence. He yawned, blinked once before his lids dropped closed again, and reached for the vibrating, beeping rectangle of plastic on the bedside table.

With the ease of familiarity, his thumb hit the correct button as he turned over and struggled to push the cobwebs of sleep from his mind.

"Booth." The words rumbled like gravel on a dirt road.

"Bo . . . Booth . . ."

The repetition of his name . . . in her voice . . . broken by the clear sound of her tears . . . swept the weariness from his brain instantly. He was on his feet before he realized he'd stood up . . . reaching for his weapon and his pants, in that order . . . consumed with the immediate need to get to her . . .

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He rushed through the closed door without knocking.

She was sitting up in the narrow hospital bed, red-rimmed dry eyes staring at the wall until the noise of his entrance turned her head toward him.

Her face crumpled . . . and she reached for him.

Later, he would remember that moment. Her arms, calling for him . . . the despairing need for the comfort he was almost desperate to provide . . .

But just then it registered only as an image in his memory before he was beside her on the bed, pulling her into his embrace without a word . . . holding her tightly against his chest . . . gently rocking from side to side as she turned her face into his shoulder and soaked his t-shirt with her tears.

Silently, he grieved with her.

Every new sob that rocked her slender frame ripped one more jagged piece from his heart.

He let her cry . . . one hand stroking her back, the other cupped against her head as she wept into his neck. He wrapped her so close their shadows became one person.

He pressed a kiss against her forehead . . . and one against her temple . . . and one in her hair . . . and then another . . . and then a hundred more as he murmured sounds that weren't words . . . and swayed with her in an easy, graceful to and fro.

And still she cried.

And so did he.

When the storm of weeping finally abated, she slumped within the circle of his arms. Her hands clenched into fists against his back, tying knots in the soft cotton of his shirt.

She couldn't leave the safety of his embrace.

He couldn't let her go.

They didn't speak.

There were no words.

They had a child.

And then they didn't.

He kept rocking back and forth.

She cried again, and he pulled her even closer.

"I was fine." The whisper didn't travel past his ears. "I was fine. Then I woke up . . . and I was bleeding and . . ."

His hands were almost rough as he rubbed her back and held her tight.

"The physician on duty said I didn't do anything -"

"Shhh." His response was immediate, his voice as quiet as hers. "Of course you didn't do anything. Of course you didn't."

She turned into his neck again and he felt the slide of fresh tears against his skin.

"Is this where you tell me it was God's -"

"No." His chin brushed back and forth over her hair as he shook his head. "No. I don't believe God has a hand in anything like this." He shifted her deeper into his arms. "Sometimes . . . sometimes, things just happen."

She pulled back, finally, but only by inches and only so that she could look into his face. He didn't hide his own sorrow or try to brush away the moisture from his cheeks.

They mourned together for a loss they shared, the burden of their grief made infinitesimally lighter as the pain was borne between them.

She was pale and blotchy from crying, her nose red, her eyes swollen and bloodshot. Tears still fell and dribbled into the drainage under her nose.

She broke his heart again with the tragic beauty of her face.

"You were right." Her chin wobbled as she fought for a pretense of composure.

Unwilling to let her go, one arm still circled her waist. His fingers rubbed lightly against her ribcage.

"About what?"

"Loving something that's only potential." Her eyes filled again; the words she spoke were barely audible. "I didn't even get to hold him but I loved him."

He framed her face within the palms of his big hands and peppered her with hard, short kisses . . . on her lips, beside her lips, on her cheeks . . .

He tasted tears and mucus and he didn't care . . . and she didn't care . . .

His forehead rested on hers, their eyes closed as they breathed for each other.

"Of course you did," he whispered, moisture leaking out beneath his lashes as he wept inside, too, where she couldn't see. "Of course you did."

She shifted, and a sliver of silver peeked out as she looked at him. "I don't know," she admitted haltingly, "that the child was male but that's what I imagined." Her lips quivered into a semblance of a smile. "He looked like you."

His chest swelled and tightened. His fingers trembled against her cheeks. "I pictured a little girl," he whispered, staring into her grief-ravaged face. "She was as beautiful as you."

Her hands lifted to cradle the stubble-roughened, pebbled jaw.

Scant inches apart, their faces cupped within the others hands, it was an awkward pose that, in the intimacy of the moment, neither noticed.

His eyes searched hers.

Hers searched his.

She braved the small space that separated them and pressed her lips against his.

The sweet tenderness of the simple gesture knocked him back on his toes. And when she broke away only to sigh and nestle again into his chest, it took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to crush her in a hold he was sure would break her bones.

Her arms curled around his waist.

He circled her shoulders and pulled her in closer.

The everyday noises of a busy hospital made an odd soundtrack to the silence that fell as they held each other.

Finally, she withdrew and sat up. Her fingers tangled in her lap.

His hands slid down her arms before he covered hers with a squeeze.

"There's . . . no impediment to . . . to . . . prevent us from . . . trying again." She spoke hesitantly, nervously, without meeting his eyes.

His grip on her hands tightened involuntarily.

"No." Jaw clenched, he met the eyes that shot up to look into his. "No, I can't." He forced himself to continue, to override the automatic desire to be whatever she wanted. "Not like this. It was killing me, Bones." Silently, he begged her to understand. "I can't do that again."

With the proof of their shared grief still on her face, she held his gaze and shook her head. "No," she whispered. "Not like this."

He stopped breathing. He was almost sure his heart stopped beating.

He stared at her, afraid to assume. Afraid to hope. Afraid of being wrong.

"I don't know what that means."

Standing on the same unfamiliar ground, her fear matched his. "I . . . don't either," she admitted quietly. "Perhaps we could figure it out together."

"Miss Brennan?" A young nurse in faded scrubs stood in the doorway, one hand on the rolling computerized medical chart just behind her. "I just need to ask you a few questions and then we can let you go home." Her voice was quiet, her expression sympthetic.

The two people on the bed never looked away from each other.

"Your friend can stay with you, if you'd like," she offered helpfully. She rolled the cart closer and pulled out the keyboard. "This won't take long."

Sitting across from her, their hands joined, Booth held her eyes. "I'm not going anywhere." The quiet statement was a promise.

Her hand turned over beneath his. Their fingers twined together.

"Nor am I."

It was a start.

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THE END

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_Don't hate me. _

_This was always where this story was going and I worried about it so much, I had to ask Excellent Driver for permission to tell it this way before I ever put fingers to keyboard. I have felt so guilty everytime someone mentioned a nice fluffy ending because I knew that wasn't going to happen.  
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_I've been pregnant twice and I have two beautiful children to show for it. If this story caused you pain, I am so sorry so sorry so sorry. Come to Nashville, I'll buy you a drink and I'll cry with you. Hell, come to Nashville even if it didn't and I'll buy you a drink. _

_Thank you to everyone who read this story, left a review, commented on Twitter or FB or just kept coming back for every update. It wouldn't be nearly as much fun to write without you out there reading._


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